Let There Be Light
Ecolea
Rating: PG
Spoilers: All of XF and HL
Feedback: Comments, flames, superfluous remarks and vicious character
assassination may be cheerfully sent to: ecolea@wt.net
Archive: All ready sent to Gossamer and Seventh Dimension. All others:
Do it for me, do it for yourself, do it for posterity.
Disclaimer: Owning them would be too aggravating, so please sue me for
copyright infringement. I love Court TV and need seven more minutes to
complete my 15 minutes of fame.
Author's note: Many thanks to Arameth for guidance, assistance and all
the little extras. And to my beloved carnivores, you know who you are,
let's go shopping!
Summary: When a catastrophe strikes Washington, DC Mulder is left to
find his own way until someone a little older, a little wiser and a
lot more cynical helps him find the answers.
Dedicated to Estella, who deserves more and better.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let There Be Light
By
Ecolea
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
January 4, 2001
It took three days and a thousand some odd rescue personnel to clear
enough debris from the blast area to begin digging out the basement
where one last body was expected to be found. Assistant Director
Walter Skinner and Special Agent Dana Scully stood together, waiting
in silent vigil in the safety zone a hundred yards from the remains of
the Hoover Building. In the background, chattering radios announced
the progress of the work. Slow, tedious and cautious as the way was
cleared. An hour passed, then another and another until someone
brought coffee and they drank without tasting on this cold midwinter's
day.
*
Fingers twitched, a hand moved and oxygen deprived lungs gasped in
agony as a trickle of air wafted through the twisted metal and
shattered concrete that had once defined the X-Files office. Memory
stirred and with it came fear, confusion and discomfort. Movement was
impossible and Mulder, trapped between his crumpled desk, the smashed
file cabinets that had stood behind it and the weight of the collapsed
retaining walls, waited again to die.
He vaguely remembered the distant sound of the explosion and flinging
himself beneath his desk as the building shuddered, rocked and finally
crumbled. Clearly remembered waking briefly several times to an icy,
near quiet darkness where his labored breaths and the terrified
pounding of his heartbeat were the only sounds to break the awful
silence. Then the air would grow stale and suffocating and he would
gratefully lose himself to the senselessness of being unconscious.
Mulder had always suspected he would die violently -- though he'd
never consciously considered the possibility. That way led to madness.
Or worse, paralytic fear. He'd never anticipated this. The slow,
creeping inertia of lonely death. Didn't really want to anticipate it
now. And maybe, he thought, with a sudden sense of fear tinged relief
as the distant sounds of movement from above finally began to
penetrate his stifling tomb, maybe he wouldn't have to just yet.
***
Seacouver, Washington
Joe's Bar
"Lucky bastard!" Joe Dawson exclaimed as he poured two shots of
whiskey. One for himself and one for Duncan MacLeod as they watched
the latest news report on the bombing in DC. Special Agent Fox Mulder
presumed to be dead, found alive and uninjured beneath his sturdy
desk.
"Y' think." Methos commented sarcastically.
Joe's head did a quick swivel in the direction of his friend. "One of
you guys?"
Methos shrugged. "Maybe. Could just be incredibly lucky. A few hundred
metric tons of concrete and steel come crashing down on him one New
Year's morning and he survives."
"It's possible," MacLeod interjected thoughtfully. "Especially if he
wasn't in the direct path of the blast and had a pocket of air
surrounding him."
Methos nodded then sipped his beer. And pigs fly, he thought.
"Whatever."
Joe grinned wryly. "Not your problem, right? Well, I've never heard of
an immortal Federal Agent. Can't imagine you could get in the FBI
without a lot of background checking of relatives and such. That kind
of infiltration takes more than just time and money. But just to be
sure I'll have someone check it out. Could be a first death."
"Still not my problem," Methos smiled.
MacLeod sighed. "Nothing's your problem. We know this. Joe, let me
know what you turn up. If it is a first death he needs a teacher."
Methos groaned. "And now, for another exciting adventure of "The Boy
Scout Rides Again."
MacLeod grimaced. "You just don't get it, Methos. If it is a first
death and he doesn't get a teacher soon, someone will take his head."
"So?"
Dawson nodded. "He's right, Adam. A Fed beheaded by a sword? And one
as high profile as this guy now is? Think about it a minute."
Methos sighed. "Yes, I see. An investigation might reveal the
existence of immortals and a witch hunt could begin. Maybe. Maybe not.
Maybe the government already knows and doesn't give a shit what we do
to each other."
"And maybe," MacLeod finished his whiskey and stood. "They do and it
would. We can't take that chance. Joe, I'll be at the dojo. Let me
know what you find."
Methos watched him leave with a cynical eye. "Another beer, Joe. And
could you change the channel? Christ! There must be something else
on."
Dawson gave a disgusted sigh and reached for the remote under the bar.
"You're a heartless bastard. You know that?"
"Thank you. I try."
*
"Jesus!" Methos heard Joe exclaim into the phone as he exited the
men's room a few hours later. "Did everyone get clear?" Methos raised
an eyebrow as he rejoined his friend at the bar and Dawson held up a
hand to forestall any questions. "Good. Good," he muttered. "No,
don't. No one goes near this guy, got that? I don't care if he's one
or not, he's got baggage none of our people need to be exposed to."
Another long pause as Joe listened to the other end of the
conversation. "Yeah, make that a directive and make sure everyone
knows." Joe didn't bother to say goodbye, just snapped the cell phone
shut and rubbed his eyes.
"What's up?" Methos asked casually, retaking his seat.
"This guy Mulder is hot!"
"Why Joe!" Methos uttered innocently. "I never knew you swung both
ways. You've gone up a notch in my estimate."
Dawson sneered sardonically at the other man and ignored the jibe.
"Hot as in fifteen minutes after one of our best guys hacked Mulder's
file two truck loads of black ops goons trashed our Washington field
office." Methos raised both brows and nodded for Joe to go on.
"Luckily, they knew it was coming. Seems Mulder's file is flagged and
tagged. They tried to spike the trace, but the system was too damn
fast. They barely got out in time. Didn't even have a chance to read
the guy's file."
"Your tax dollars at work," Methos drawled, nonchalantly sipping his
beer.
Joe shook his head and sighed. "Anyway, I've called off any
observation for the time being. Immortal or not, he's on his own."
"A wise decision," Methos agreed. Anyone with that much government
interest in them was far too much of a threat for anyone to be
assigned as a Watcher. Either Mulder had friends in high places, or he
had powerful enemies and the Watcher organization certainly wasn't
equipped to handle either of them. "So what are you going to tell
Mac?"
"Jesus, Mac." Joe shook his head. "You know what he'll do. He'll go on
his own to check him out."
"And now that somebody knows someone else is interested in him they'll
be waiting."
Dawson nodded and moved to pour himself another whiskey. "Mac's
already too high profile himself."
"You want my advice?" Methos offered. Joe gave him a dubious look and
nodded. "Tell him the truth. You've turned nothing up. As far as you
know he's just some lucky son of a bitch who isn't immortal."
Joe looked thoughtfully at his whiskey before swallowing it down in a
single shot. "It is the truth," he murmured.
"Yes, it is. Just leave out the really exciting bits that will make
him drop everything and run off half cocked."
"And what about Mulder? If it is a first death..."
"Joe, we all sink or swim on our own merits. He's a grown man. Either
he'll find a teacher, a teacher will find him, or he'll learn about
The Game the hard way. Like most of us did. Besides, he's a Federal
agent which means he's armed. First time someone comes at him with a
sword he's likely to shoot first and try to question the corpse later.
He'll learn. And then he'll either live or die."
"That's pretty cold logic, my friend."
Methos shrugged. "It's a cold world and Mac's passions run far too
hot." Methos paused for another drink. "Then we're agreed?"
Joe nodded. "Agreed."
They left it at that, drinking in silence as they watched the latest
news bulletin on the miraculous survival of Fox William Mulder.
***
Arlington, Virginia
April, 2005
Mulder dropped his travel bag on the floor beside the door, stripped
off his coat, jacket and tie then toed off his shoes eager to relax.
His cell phone rang and he fished it out of the jacket as he headed
for the bedroom. All he wanted was a long hot shower, a comfy place on
the couch and some take out.
"Yeah, Scully," he answered automatically. It had become a routine
with them. One would call to make sure the other got home without
mishap after an unusually long assignment First one to call bought
lunch for the other. "You win. I'm home safe and sound."
"Do tell Agent Mulder."
Mulder paused at the unfamiliar voice. "Who is this?"
"A friend."
"My friends generally have names," he responded tartly, too exhausted
to play this particular game tonight.
"Names can be illusions," the voice replied.
"So is pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but we all want to know how it's
done."
The voice chuckled. "You may call me Mr. Smith. And I'm going to take
your head."
"My head?" Mulder rolled his eyes. "That doesn't sound very friendly.
You another asshole with a sword?"
"Come now, Agent Mulder. You're either in The Game or you're out of
it. Permanently. No more hiding behind that badge of yours."
Now Mulder was pissed. Every so often some loony would challenge him
to a sword fight. At least once a year since the bombing of the
Hoover. Guess it was about time for another. Usually, he simply put a
bullet in some part of their anatomy that never did too much damage,
then arrested the stupid jerks. Most of them were now in prison with
sentences ranging from thirty to sixty years. The attempted murder of
a Federal officer was a very serious offense. Of course, interrogation
had led to some interesting information. The first one had gone on and
on about some kind of game he and others like him were playing,
laughing when Mulder didn't seem to know what he was talking about.
That particular individual had spent some time in a psych ward before
being found legally sane enough to stand trial. Who they were or what
this game was about still eluded him. Another X file he and Scully had
been unable to solve.
"You'd think after all this time with three of your buddies in jail
and a fourth awaiting trial you'd take the hint," Mulder muttered
disgustedly.
There was a pause on the other end of the connection, then the voice
became thoughtful. "Perhaps you're right, Agent Mulder. You are very
new to The Game. Not much power in you. Yet. And you lack honor.
Reason enough for me to find you worthless quarry, at the moment."
"I'm happy you've resolved your issues," Mulder retorted. "Now fuck
off!" He snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto the couch.
By rights, he admitted as he shed his clothes and got ready for his
shower, he probably should have set up a meeting with the unknown
caller and tried to apprehend him in hopes that it would lead him to
however many others there were in this bizarre death game.
Unfortunately, the last two times he and Scully had gone that route
they'd turned up nothing and no one. All Mulder had gotten out of it
was a migraine and the feeling that he was being played for a fool.
He'd finally decided after the last round of this so called game that
the next time it happened he was going to ignore it until he had to
actually do something about it. Like arrest the bastard. Not a very
proactive plan, but a plan nonetheless.
As for the game itself and why he of all people should be chosen as
its target, he could only wonder. It might be some lame idea to
distract him from his search for the truth. Or it could simply be that
people did some really weird shit. Inexplicable shit. And as for the
number of players in this game, Mulder consoled himself as he finally
stepped into the steaming spray of the shower, how many of them could
there be?
***
Bangor, Maine
November, 2007
Mulder glanced at the bloody cloth in his hands with a shudder. He
heard the trunk slam shut and quickly balled up the shirt he'd worn,
stuffing it under the seat of the car. Scully came around to the
passenger side, slid into the seat and handed him a clean one. She was
pale and nervous, but they'd been through this before.
"Mulder," she finally began as he was doing up the last button. "I
think it's time we ran some more tests."
"No."
"Mulder!"
He shook his head and started the car. "No more tests, Scully."
"But Mulder--"
"No!" He didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to think about it.
Let alone acknowledge this accelerated healing business with more
tests. "What's the point," he added bitterly as he turned on the
heater so they could wait for the local police in comfort. "Look,
Scully. I know you mean well, but we just have to face the facts. I
haven't been a...normal human since They took me. Since maybe before
They took me. We know They can heal, let's just consider this part of
the new and improved Mulder package and forget it. Okay?"
Scully sighed and nodded. He knew she didn't like it, but then she
didn't have to. Neither did he and they both had to live with that
fact. There wasn't an answer for this, and there was certainly no
cure. And besides, who'd want to be cured of this anyway?
"You know," he grinned wryly. "Maybe we should consider this a
blessing. I could have been killed tonight."
Scully shook her head and gave him a small, yet meaningful smile.
"Maybe you're right. That last auditor certainly seemed to be
pleased."
Mulder grimaced. "Don't remind me." No injury report meant no
reimbursement costs. "My out of pocket expenses for clothes are
killing my lifestyle. Pay-Per-Porn won't even take my calls."
"Think of it as a small price to pay for immortality," Scully teased.
Mulder's eyes widened. "I'm not immortal! Jesus, immortal. That's not
a blessing, that's a curse. I think They just want me alive and
healthy. For whatever reason They need me. And as soon as They don't
They'll just terminate this little experiment and I'll be on my own."
In the distance the sound of sirens could now be heard and as they
stepped out of the car to wait in the open, Mulder made certain his
torn and bloody suit jacket was carefully out of sight. It wouldn't do
for there to be any questions. Even if his blood was all over the
crime scene they wouldn't know it was his unless they caught him
trying to hide it.
***
Washington, DC
New Hoover Annex
March, 2015
Director Skinner's retirement party was in full swing by the time
Mulder arrived. He'd finished up the last of the paper work he'd
needed to do and sent Scully on ahead, hoping the party would cheer
her up. Ever since her divorce papers had come through she'd been
quietly depressed.
Frankly, he mused as he watched her being chatted up by a couple of
younger female agents, he hadn't been all that surprised that her
three year marriage to a Navy captain had ended. Or that Scully had
filed the divorce papers first. He'd been a teacher at the naval base
and wanted a sedentary life. She'd spent the last twenty-two years
running around the country with her crackpot partner. He'd always
suspected she'd married a man like her father and hoped to be like her
mother -- happily married until death us do part. Instead, they'd
fought over everything until the bitter end. Including the set of
Tiffany lamps that had belonged to his mother he'd given them as a
wedding present
Twenty-two years, Mulder silently wondered as he looked at Scully then
glanced at Skinner. At sixty-something, the former marine was still
vigorous and commanding, though well deserving of the 30 year pension
he'd earned. Scully, though still in her late forties, was just
starting to show her age. Fine lines becoming wrinkles from too much
time spent out in the elements traipsing around crime scenes and the
stress inherent in the job.
And he? Mulder looked around at old faces and new suddenly startled by
the revelation. At 55 he looked much the same as he had in his hey day
when the conspiracy threatened and an alien invasion seemed imminent.
And he hadn't noticed.
Well who would? Mulder reasoned. He'd never been vain or obsessive
about his appearance. Most times he only looked in the mirror to shave
or comb his hair and he was usually half asleep at the time. He turned
to leave, feeling the overwhelming urge to look in a mirror. Really
look this time and see if it were true. Had Scully been right all
those years ago? Was he somehow immortal?
Surely not, he silently insisted as he strode down the hall to the
men's room. The place was nearly empty with only a stall in use and he
stared at his reflection in the bank of mirrors above the line of
sinks feeling both relieved and appalled. Relief that he still looked
the same as he always had and appalled by that very fact. Not an ounce
of fat to forewarn against a hanging jowl, not a single gray hair, not
even a frown line between his eyes to slowly form a network of ever
increasing wrinkles. He looked as if he hadn't aged a day in fifteen
years.
"Jesus, Mulder, give the rest of us a break!"
He whirled, startled by the sudden interruption of his thoughts.
"Agent Colton," he greeted the man politely, noticing the he hadn't
aged at all well. A beer belly paunch was held in by a too tight belt
which already showed signs of breakage in the leather against the
strain of his weight. What was left of his hair had gone silver gray,
while his skin looked like sallow parchment, and his nose, now bulbous
and fatty, had fine lines of broken capillaries which told Mulder that
Colton was probably an alcoholic.
"Cut the crap, Mulder, you selfish bastard."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You look great. You always look great. While your partner looks like
you've run her into the ground. Everyone knows she covers for you.
Taking up the slack because you're too incompetent to do the job. You
even wrecked her marriage. Dragging her all over creation because you
were jealous and too fucking full of yourself. I don't know why she's
loyal to you. You've done nothing but wear her down and make a mess of
her life!"
With that, Colton turned and stalked out, leaving Mulder open-mouthed
and stunned. Did people really think that? For Scully's sake he hoped
not.
After taking a moment to collect himself, Mulder left the room and
headed back to the party, pausing at the door to look around. Yes,
there was Scully speaking in gentle tones to another young agent and
looking... Mulder swallowed hard on the word. Motherly. Scully looked
motherly. Not just in attitude, because it was obvious she was giving
someone a good piece of advice, but in appearance. There was a lot
more gray in her hair than he'd realized. And she looked tired. Worn
out, just as Colton had said.
Without thinking about it, Mulder turned and went to his office. He
grabbed his overcoat, hurriedly leaving the building in need of time
and space to consider things. He knew that most of what Colton had
said was pure bullshit and malice. He'd had a thing for Scully since
their Academy days and he'd never tried to hide his disdain for
Mulder. But he'd been right about one thing. The job was draining on
Scully. She was no longer a young woman of twenty-three, fresh faced
and eager to plunge head first into the unknown. But still she
followed. Not blindly, yet bravely indeed.
Mulder turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue walking aimlessly past the
White House, head down against the chill and the fine mist of rain
that shrouded the brightly lit night sky of the city. His thoughts
circled around what all this meant and what, if anything, he could or
should do about it. Twenty minutes later the misting rain had turned
to fog and he found himself alone on a side street not far from the
Lincoln Memorial. He knew a decent bar not far from here and the urge
took him to have a drink. Maybe a little muddling of his thoughts was
what he needed. Some empty headed down time to let his musings simmer
until a clear and coherent idea bubbled up from the morass of his
thoughts.
He liked the notion so much that he turned on his heel and headed in
the direction of the bar. It was just as he'd finished crossing the
street that it hit him. Another one of those god awful headaches that
often presaged a meeting with a Sword Bearer, although he hadn't met
up with one of those for a few years. He supposed they'd taken the
hint that he didn't want to play, or maybe he'd finally put the last
one in jail. He still didn't understand it, but it was a minor blip on
the view screen of his life. He could live with it.
Up ahead a man came out of the darkness and into the fog blurred light
of a street lamp. Mulder paused, easing his hands out of his pockets
to reach for his gun if need be. The man's hands also rested calmly at
his sides, though his posture telegraphed tension and wariness.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and I don't want any trouble,"
the stranger announced.
Taken aback Mulder suppressed a smile. "Special Agent Fox Mulder of
the FBI. Glad to hear it." He edged cautiously past MacLeod, who
looked a tad relieved as he went on about his business.
More weird shit, Mulder thought as he saw the bar up ahead. Stuff like
that also happened occasionally, though he'd never before associated
it with the headaches. Strange men and women introducing themselves
and declaring peaceful intentions. Too weird. He definitely needed a
drink. If that kept up... Jesus! What was the world coming to?
***
"Hey MacLeod! Long time no hear," Joe eased back in his chair,
cradling the phone against his shoulder.
Methos perked his ears up while pretending to read the paper. He and
MacLeod had been at odds for a few years, though nothing that would
bring them to blows. Still, he liked to keep an eye, albeit distant on
the Scot.
"Who? Oh yeah, him. You don't say." Joe held the phone away from his
ear for a moment and glared at Methos, who hid a smile and tried for
all the world to look exactly what he wasn't, innocent. "I never told
you that. I said as far as we knew he wasn't immortal." Another long
pause and this time Methos did look up. "We couldn't get anybody on
him. It was complicated, MacLeod. And frankly, after, I just forgot he
existed." A few minutes later after promising to give Mac the whole
story when he got home and agreeing to finally put a Watcher on the
immortal in question he hung up and sighed.
"What's up?" Methos asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Remember that guy, Mulder, the Fed who survived the Hoover bombing?"
Methos nodded. "Well, he's one of you guys and Mac ran into him
tonight. Did a little checking, too. Seems Mulder's been arresting any
immortals who challenge him and charging them with attempted murder.
He's got five cooling their heels for the next forty odd years and two
locked up as criminally insane."
"Good lord!" Methos whispered. "They're not going to be happy campers
when they get out. Well," he shrugged, going back to his paper, "hope
he knows what he's doing."
"You think he doesn't know what he is?" Joe asked aghast.
Methos looked thoughtful, then shook his head. "It's been what?
Fifteen years? Either he's fairly old and doesn't want to risk his
role as an officer of the law for whatever reason, or he knows about
The Game and is biding his time until he's stronger. It's what I'd do
at any rate."
Joe looked equally thoughtful. "You're probably right."
"Of course I am. Did Mac even imply that he might be ignorant of The
Game?" Joe shook his head. "Well then, there you have it. Mac would
have said something. That was the whole point of observing him in the
first place wasn't it? To make sure he knew and didn't make things
uncomfortable for the rest of us."
"Yeah," Joe agreed. "He's gotta know. There are at least fifty
immortals living in and around DC. If it was a first death then
someone must have pulled him aside, given him what he needed and let
Mulder make his choice."
Methos nodded. "See, I told you there was nothing to worry about."
"There's still Mac. He's going to be really pissed."
"He'll get over it."
With that Methos snapped his paper open and went back to reading,
leaving Joe to ponder the interesting notion of a Federal officer
being an immortal. Maybe Mac could approach him, try to get his help
in locating some of the more dangerous immortals who were too
hazardous to keep a Watcher on them all the time. Then again, maybe
not. By the time Mac got back he'd be in no mood to do any favors for
The Watchers. Of course, Methos was a former Watcher...
"Hey, Adam. How'd you like to do an old man a favor?"
***
The appointment was for eleven o'clock sharp and Mulder waited in his
third floor office gazing out the window at the distant promenade with
it's vast reflecting pool gleaming in the sunshine. After the bombing
when they'd built the new annex no one had even suggested putting the
X Files offices down in the basement again. He hadn't argued, despite
the fact that he now had less space. Admittedly, while Mulder wasn't
violently claustrophobic, the nightmare of being buried alive had
taken him years to shake. And although Scully did have her own private
office across the hall and they shared the use of an administrative
assistant with another department, Mulder often missed the quiet
privacy of his old office. Still, he would never again gladly spend
his days and nights below ground.
Another headache suddenly assailed him and he tiredly rubbed his eyes.
They usually didn't last long, but they'd been coming more often over
the past few days. Along with the distinct impression that he was
being watched.
"Agent Mulder?" The admin popped her head in the door. "Mr. Pierson to
see you."
He turned from the window, surreptitiously unsnapping the safety on
his holster. "By all means, show him in."
Now this should be interesting, Mulder thought as Adam Pierson entered
his office curiously glancing around. To Mulder's eyes the man
appeared to be very young, perhaps in his early twenties. Yet, his
movements, graceful, at ease and all together masculine belied the
fact of his face. And his eyes told a different story entirely.
Worldly wise and weary. Still, nothing about his appearance
communicated the fact that he was somehow involved with the Sword
Bearers and the threats against Mulder.
He waited while Pierson took a seat then snapped a question at him.
"You said you had some information for me. Information about the
attempts on my life?"
"Ah," Pierson stammered then caught himself, his soft English accent
once again surprising Mulder. "I don't believe I said any thing of the
sort, Agent Mulder. I did say I wasn't hunting you and would like to
speak with you about certain matters related to The Game. Not that I
was currently in it."
"Currently?" Mulder spat. "And how long were you in it before you
became disenchanted with murder?"
Pierson leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. "That's a very
personal question, Agent Mulder."
"Murder generally is very personal, Mr. Pierson."
Pierson gave a gentle, amused shake of his head. "The Game isn't
personal. It's about survival. Not merely survival of the fittest, but
of the best. Or so some of us would like to hope. I can tell you're
very young and very new to everything, and it no doubt seems that
every challenge is singularly peculiar to you. But we've all had to
face the fact that most of those who hunt do so because they want to
be The One. Not because they care anything about us."
"Us?"
"Like you, most of us just want to be left alone to live our lives. If
The Game didn't exist we'd all be perfectly happy. But it does."
Pierson sighed, vaguely annoyed. "Look, I'm sure your teacher
explained all this to you, otherwise you wouldn't still have your
head."
"Mrs. Fiengold said I should play nice with the other kiddies, but I
don't think she said anything about my head. She did smack the back of
it once for talking out of turn, but other than that... Nope. Nothing
about my head. Now give me the information I want, Mr. Pierson, or we
can do this just as easily in an interrogation room downstairs.
Withholding information regarding a conspiracy to commit murder has an
equally long sentence as attempted murder when the target is a Federal
agent. However you're involved in this you'd better start giving me
some straight answers."
Pierson leaned forward in his chair a look of sheer disbelief on his
face. "You don't know, do you?"
"Know what, Mr. Pierson?"
"You don't know what you are. My god man, it's been fifteen years,
hasn't anyone approached you? Or," Pierson sat back with a sardonic
smile. "Someone did approach you and you ran them off. What'd you do?
Hmm? Trace the calls? Try to 'bust' anyone who tried to help you? I
take it no one but me ever thought to simply make an appointment?"
Pierson shook his head. "Ah, Mulder. No wonder you've never had a
teacher. Anyone but a Federal agent would have long since been brought
into the fold."
Mulder straightened in his chair. The half-pitying tone that implied
he was a child, or perhaps worse, childish was more than insulting,
but as he opened his mouth to argue Pierson held up a hand.
"No. Words would be meaningless now. I have to show you."
With that he pulled out a small pocket knife and Mulder's fingers
itched to reach for his gun. Still, the thing was so small and the man
so affable and innocuous in appearance that he held off, his eyes
following the movement of Pierson's hands as he took the blade and
sliced deeply into his left palm.
Mulder flinched, remembering the night he'd done pretty much the same
thing for Scully's benefit. She'd been shocked, horrified and utterly
fascinated as she watched the healing process. What should have taken
weeks and left a scar had taken only moments and left his own palm as
pristine as it had been moments before.
It took less time for Pierson, Mulder noted distantly, and a small
electrical discharge around the wound left the scent of ozone in the
air, but still, it was the same.
Mulder swallowed hard, that same relieved yet appalled feeling
creeping through every inch of his body until he forced himself to
repress a shudder. He stared at Pierson, who'd tossed the blade on his
desk and was now wiping his bloody hand on a handkerchief.
Again Pierson held up his hand, fully healed in seconds. "Now," he
said. "Either I'm the long lost brother your mother never bothered to
mention, or we need to talk."
Mulder nodded slowly, more to himself than to Pierson. "I think," he
licked his lips and cleared his dry throat. "I think I need to hear
whatever you have to say," he murmured, at last finding a sense of
salvation in the calm, quiet eyes before him.
"Good man," Pierson smiled. "Come on, let's take a walk."
*
Methos followed Mulder out into the hall silently berating himself for
being six kinds of fool. He didn't need a student, he didn't want a
student, but no one else in the area appeared to be willing to take
him on. Not surprising, Methos imagined, given some of the things he'd
found out about Mulder just from what was available over the Internet.
He'd come expecting to find a brilliant, but gullible, idiosyncratic
flake kept on the payroll out of compassion for all he'd endured.
Instead, he'd found a sharp, suspicious, straight-to-the-point officer
of the law. It would have been refreshing if it hadn't meant that he
now felt responsible for the man.
He'd guessed that Mulder was immortal from the start, just as Mac and
Joe had suspected. He'd also postulated, though he'd kept that to
himself, that it was most likely a first death situation after the
bombing. What he hadn't counted on, which he should have if he cared
to admit it, was that Mulder's natural instinct to protect himself
using the law would make him leery of anyone who approached him
through anything other than regular channels.
Immortals loved their own sense of the mysterious and weren't
generally given to scheduling appointments with other immortals during
business hours. Which was, of course, exactly why he'd done it. He'd
simply assumed that Mulder knew the rules and would take the gesture
as it was meant. Openly amicable and without risk. Besides being
unable to come to death blows in public, getting a sword past security
was nigh on impossible. Leave it to him, the oldest and supposedly
wisest immortal alive to stumble into a mess of his own making! A
pointed reminder, he thought wryly, of why he didn't do profound.
Mulder suddenly paused as he led the way toward the elevators, turning
abruptly to take the stairs. Methos glanced past him, spotting a
rather determined redhead striding down the hall in their direction.
Her level gaze caught his and she opened her mouth to call out, but
Methos didn't stick around to discover why Mulder was trying so hard
to avoid her. He plowed through the door, chasing hurriedly after
Mulder, who'd apparently taken the stairs three and four at a time.
"So," Methos asked as they exited through the garage. "Why are we
running from your boss?"
Mulder did a double take and frowned. "My partner, Scully. And
technically, I'm her boss."
Methos grinned. "You always run from your employees then?"
Mulder slowed to a casual walk as they reached the street. "She's not
just any employee. At the moment she's a disgruntled employee -- with
a gun."
Methos chuckled and left the matter there, sensing a great deal of
history between the two. It was not unlikely that Mulder had confided
some of what he'd been experiencing with her. If that was the case
then it would be his decision and his alone whether to tell her the
truth or leave her behind when this life ended and another was begun.
"So, what exactly is an X file?" Methos asked, trying to work the
conversation around to something Mulder felt comfortable with before
laying the big one on him. Not to mention putting it off until they
found a less crowded boulevard to wander down.
Mulder stopped and suddenly smiled. "Apparently, we are."
Methos raised an eyebrow and Mulder shrugged. "The X files are cases
that fall outside the purview of mainstream investigative techniques.
Sometimes, but not always, encompassing the paranormal, the
inexplicable and the indecipherable. Not to mention the occasional
alien abduction."
"Alien abduction? And they let you spend tax dollars on this?"
"Maybe they know something you don't."
"I doubt it," Methos muttered sotto voce as Mulder started walking. On
the other hand, the existence of immortals was certainly inexplicable,
even to him. So, maybe Mulder did know something the rest of them
didn't. Methos gave an internal shrug and moved past it, catching up
to Mulder and letting him set the pace as they headed away from the
monument-strewn heart of the city.
Eventually they found an empty bench overlooking the Potomac. If Mac
had been here the Scot might have regaled him with stories of General
Washington and his band of brothers rowing across the little river
during a terrible snowstorm in the dead of night. And he'd have been
arguing that the historians said it was far earlier in the day, the
weather was clear and they'd merely drifted with the current at the
time. But he wasn't and they certainly wouldn't be talking about
anything anytime soon.
Methos heaved a silent sigh and sought for words to explain the
inexplicable to an expectant Mulder. "No one knows how it began or
why," he finally said. "It, The Game, simply was. It's really very
simple. There can be only one. One survivor of The Game. For better or
worse. So, when an immortal, that's what we are, comes into existence
after his first death either a teacher or a hunter finds him. The
teacher will tell him, as I'm telling you, the rules of The Game. The
most important is that the challenge must be private and can only be
one on one, blade to blade. Mortals must not see or even suspect our
existence. If the new immortal is found by a hunter, he generally
loses his head -- the only way we can be killed -- and his Quickening
to the victor."
"Quickening," Mulder murmured thoughtfully. "The spark of life?"
Methos nodded. "Exactly. Your Quickening contains all you are, all
you've known and experienced throughout your existence. It's the very
core of an immortal. What heals us and keeps us alive. And when we
kill, when we take a life, we take all of that life into ourselves.
Good, bad or indifferent it is ours until we in our turn are killed
and our Quickening passes to another."
Mulder shifted uncomfortably in his seat, distaste and disbelief
written across his features. Whether it was the notion of taking a
head or the idea of absorbing a Quickening which disturbed him, Methos
didn't know. Perhaps both. He gave him a moment to digest this then he
went on.
"Now, we do have some advantages in The Game. We can sense each other,
or more accurately, we can sense each other's Quickening."
Mulder closed his eyes briefly and nodded. "The headaches. I had one
right before you showed up."
"It's like an alarm going off, telling you to prepare. As you get
older it will feel less like a headache and more like a buzz, but that
also comes with the knowledge of what you're feeling and a lack of
resistance to the sense of your own Quickening. "
Mulder sighed. "Don't you guys have a handbook or something I can
read?"
Methos smiled. Actually, The Watchers did, but he wasn't about to tell
that to Mulder. "Handbooks are so impersonal, Fox. And they never tell
you the finer points of sword fighting. Like how it feels to stab
someone and have their blood run down your arms."
Mulder's eyes suddenly grew cold. "I already know that. And it's
Mulder, not Fox."
Methos said nothing, but the thought came to him that Mulder was not
as innocent as he seemed. It was a forgone conclusion that Mulder had
already killed to survive, which would make Methos' job so much
easier. Mulder wouldn't be squeamish when it came to fighting for his
life. Of course, now he had to get him past the first shock before the
man went into denial and decided to bolt.
"So tell me," Methos asked, deliberately changing the subject back to
Mulder's safety zone. "In all of these X files didn't you ever once
come across a case where there was a series of mysterious beheadings
with no connection between the victims?"
Mulder stared at the river for a long moment and sighed. "Of course,
but that's presupposing you can identify the victim in the first place
to establish a connection, or lack thereof. From what you've just told
me most immortals," Mulder shook his head at the word, "live pretty
average lives. No criminal activity means no finger prints. No family
means no one to file a missing persons report, or to identify the
body. That's also presupposing that every unexplained crime that's
committed comes across my desk. It would be more likely that a simple
beheading would be filed as random gang activity, especially if the
body couldn't be identified. The simplest explanation is generally the
most accepted. Unless there was something truly unusual found at the
crime scene, even more unusual than a sword, I wouldn't hear about."
And of course, Methos thought, that was also presupposing The Watchers
didn't suborn every ME or local detective that got a little too
curious and redirect the path of any investigation.
"That's good to hear," Methos murmured.
"What's good to hear?"
"That our cover has never been blown. When we first heard about you we
were a little nervous."
"Why?"
"The idea that someone in the government might know about immortals,
someone who might use their position," he lied adroitly, "to start a
witch hunt. There's a reason the vast majority of mortals must never
know about us."
Mulder nodded. "Jealousy is a pretty good motive for mass murder."
"And if one has no sense of honor one might use every means at their
disposal to rid themselves of the competition. It's been done before.
Whom do you think started the Inquisition or the Salem witch trials? A
few immortal victims mixed in with all the rest would never be
noticed."
"So that's why you're here," Mulder murmured. "To find out whether I'm
a sociopath, or to help you locate those sociopathic immortals before
they become a danger to the rest."
"Or to humanity," Methos added. "Life is much richer, my friend, when
you have an average Joe to sit down with and share a beer and some
pleasant conversation."
"But..." Mulder began. "To live for centuries watching those average
Joe's and Jane's grow old and die... How do you move on? How do live
knowing every friend you make is going to die?"
Methos felt a surge of pride. This one asked the right questions.
Maybe he'd be worth teaching after all.
"The same way mortals move through life. Nothing is certain. We live,
we love, we go on."
"But what about the children? Do they become immortal? And if they do
does that mean one of my parents was an immortal?"
Methos shook his head sadly. "There are no children. I'm sorry,
Mulder, but we're all sterile. And our parents," he went on despite
the shocked look he received, "don't enter into the equation, because
no matter what you've been led to believe, you were a foundling."
"No," Mulder insisted. "I have a birth certificate. I even know the
name of the hospital where I was born."
Methos sighed deeply. "You know the name of the hospital where the
birth certificate was issued. I suspect if you dig deep enough you'll
find that there are no charts on file to document the birth. That your
mother told her doctor you were born at home. She might even have
miscarried before you serendipitously appeared on her door step in the
middle of the night. So there might even be a record of a pregnancy on
file somewhere. But no, I assure you, Mulder, you were a foundling
like all the rest of us. That doesn't," he added sternly, "mean that
your parents or siblings were any less than that. Merely that a
biological connection never existed."
For a moment it looked as though Mulder were preparing to argue the
point, but a sudden look of comprehension crossed his features and
Methos knew he had scored. Finally, Mulder nodded and stood.
"Thank you, Mr. Pierson," he said, putting on his best professional
facade, though Methos knew he had to be hurting. "I appreciate all
you've told me. Send me what you have on those immortals you suspect
might be dangerous and I'll check it out. I can't promise to share the
information, but I can alert the local PD's to keep a look out."
"Fair enough," Methos said. Mulder was obviously clever enough not to
trust a complete stranger too far. Probably didn't want to give either
side an unfair advantage. But he would protect the general, law-
abiding public which included most immortals.
Mulder started to hand him his card and Methos stood. "What do you
think you're doing?"
"I have to get back to the office. But thank you again for your time."
"No," Methos shook his head. "You can't just go back to your normal
routine. Now that you know what you are you have to be trained to
fight. And there are things you need to know."
"Like what? That you haven't a clue as to where immortals come from?"
Methos didn't bother to hide his surprise. "That was rather obvious,"
Mulder told him dryly. "You started with The Game, not 'In the
beginning...' And as for learning to fight... I've been doing pretty
well on my own."
"Sure," Methos hurriedly interjected. "Until the immortals you've sent
up the river get out and come looking for revenge. And this time they
won't challenge you openly, because as far as their concerned you
don't fight fair. I know honest immortals who'd kill you just for
having that reputation. Right now you've got an unfair advantage.
You're a Federal agent and no sane immortal wants the kind of scrutiny
taking your head would bring. But this life will end, Mulder. It must!
And then you won't be able to hide behind a badge or a gun."
Mulder looked away, staring sadly at the river. Clearly he'd already
begun thinking along those lines. At least in terms of his career at
the FBI.
"A few more years where you are, Mulder, and people will begin to
wonder whether you've a painting locked in the attic and the Dorian
Gray comments will start. There's just so much that can be attributed
to good genes even in this day and age."
Mulder nodded absently and Methos pressed the point. "I'm not saying
that you have to leave for good. Just for a little while. Long enough
to learn what you need in order to defend yourself and those you
love."
Methos knew he'd finally gotten to Mulder when the other man looked
stricken and silently mouthed the single word, "Scully." As he watched
the blood drain from Mulder's face Methos had to wonder at the
reaction. Were they lovers? Perhaps. Or perhaps they were something
far more important. Friends. Confidants. Partners. One thing was sure,
Methos surmised, if any immortal dared to threaten so much as a single
red hair on the woman's head he'd find himself a foot shorter and six
feet underground without an iota of guilt being felt by Mulder.
Suddenly, Mulder's expression turned to one of determination. "I have
six weeks vacation coming. And I can tack on an extra three of sick
days if necessary. Will that be enough?"
Methos gave a reassuring smile. "It's a good start. The rest, of
course, will be up to you."
Mulder nodded grimly as if he knew full well that there were some
things in life worth fighting for.
***
"I don't like it," Scully responded. "You just met this informant and
you're willing to go off with him? I thought you knew better than that
by now."
"You don't understand," Mulder insisted. "He's like me. He's just like
me! And I have to find out why. I have to know the truth, Scully."
"All right. I can accept that. But why do you have to go alone? That's
the part I don't like. For all you know it could be a trap."
Mulder sighed. He hadn't told her the whole truth, judiciously leaving
out the bit about learning how to decapitate immortal homicidal
maniacs with a sword -- and even he didn't quite believe that. He'd
told her just enough to make her curious, but not enough to send her
into an over protective frenzy. The least she would do was follow him.
At worst, she'd have him locked in a psychiatric facility just to keep
him wandering off on what she would consider an insane quest.
"Yes," he admitted, saying only the truth. "It could be a trap. But if
it isn't... Scully, it won't be forever. I'm coming back."
Scully shook her head, refusing to listen. "This is foolish, Mulder."
"Is it? Look at me, Scully. Really look at me. Better yet," he grabbed
her arm and pulled her into the bedroom, forcing her to stand in front
of the mirror beside him. "Now look. Look at both of us and tell me
what you see."
She did as he asked and saw what she'd suspected all along. Only she
was aging.
"Don't you see, Scully? In a few years I really will have to leave and
the opportunity will be gone."
Scully stared sightlessly at the mirror. "You aren't immortal," she
whispered. "It isn't possible. Somehow the aging process has been
slowed. There's a study being done in Finland that hypothesizes--"
"No!" Mulder hissed. "No more studies. No more tests. Jesus, Scully,
do I have to stick a knife in my heart and drop dead at your feet to
prove it?"
"Don't you even think about doing something that stupid!"
Finally, Scully shook her head and sighed. "I guess it really doesn't
matter whether I believe you or not, Mulder. You're going to do this
anyway, so what's the use in us arguing anymore. But I'm going to
insist you take some precautions and I want to meet this Adam Pierson
before you go."
"I can do that," Mulder nodded. "And if he won't meet with you then I
promise I won't go. Okay?"
"Okay."
*
"What do you mean she wants to meet me? I'm going to be your teacher,
not your prom date!"
Mulder had the grace to look embarrassed. "It's that or take her with
us."
"You couldn't just leave?" Methos muttered angrily.
"Sure I could," Mulder drawled. "And then Scully, who's spent the
better part of twenty years solving complex medical riddles and
paranormal puzzles will hunt us down. When she found us, I'd get a
lecture and a few dirty looks. You on the other hand..."
"Might end up on a slab in the morgue with a scalpel happy red head
trying to decide which pound of flesh she wants to lop off. Fine,"
Methos sighed in disgust. "I'll meet the woman. But," he added,
wagging a finger at Mulder. "I make no promises about your virtue."
Mulder rolled his eyes and ushered Methos into his apartment. To the
ancient eyes of this particular immortal the place seemed to suit the
man. Unprepossessing, sparsely furnished, with a fish tank to one side
of the room that fairly shouted bachelor. Methos paused to appreciate
the naked mermaid sitting atop a downed UFO while posing lasciviously
for a deep sea diver when there was a knock at the door and Mulder
went to answer it.
The redhead from the Hoover walked in and Methos stood, letting
himself slip a little more deeply into his Adam "Perpetual Grad
Student" Pierson persona -- the charming, affable, studious young
gentleman that had served him so well for the last 30 years.
"So good to finally be allowed to meet you, Agent Scully," he held out
a hand without missing a beat, or the annoyed glance Scully shot
Mulder.
"Mr. Pierson," Scully responded, coolly returning the gesture.
"Adam, please."
"And exactly how old are you claiming to be, Mr. Pierson?"
Out of the corner of his eye Methos saw Mulder watching the exchange
with a calculating eye. Oh, very clever, he thought, good cop, bad
cop.
"Old enough to drink and wise enough not to do it and drive. I also,"
he smiled, putting a little twinkle his eye, "remembered to bring
protection." He patted his side where Mulder must know he kept his
sword and watched a little color drain from the other man's face.
Scully, on the other hand, had gone a bit red. Now he knew exactly how
much Mulder had told her about being an immortal -- next to nothing --
and she was none the wiser about him or his intentions.
"I think," Scully finally answered, no longer trying to be the calm
and collected Special Agent interrogating a suspect -- not with her
face glowing two shades deeper than her hair. "That's between you and
Mulder."
Methos turned a brilliant smile on the other man, who looked
uncomfortably at both of them for a brief moment before he gave up and
grabbed his bags.
"See you in a few weeks, Scully."
The woman nodded and Methos was relieved to see that she was not quite
as sharp as her partner. To Scully's eyes he appeared to be exactly as
he'd hoped. A rather likable fellow, possibly old enough to be more
clever than she, and relaxed enough about it to tease her mercilessly
for her impertinence. As he followed Mulder out the door, he turned to
give Scully a winning smile and a flirtatious wink. After all, she was
a very attractive woman and she did blush rather nicely.
***
"We're here!" Methos sang as if they'd just finished a two day drive
instead of twenty minutes.
Mulder stared at the other man as if he'd gone insane. "Are you
joking? I could walk to work from here."
"Damn, and I did so want to impress you with my cleverness taking that
wrong exit off the expressway."
Mulder gave a wry twist of his lips as if to say, "Yeah, right, tell
me another one," and climbed out the car. In the distance he heard the
flickering pop of muffled gunshots followed quickly by the loud whine
of police sirens responding. "Picked a real garden spot, Pierson. The
old warehouse district of downtown DC. Nice."
"Isn't it though," Methos grinned, helping Mulder with his things.
"It's perfect. Not a soul around and no one, not even an immortal
foolish enough to come down here day or night."
"Then what are we doing here?"
"Isolation is the next best thing to holy ground. And since this is
both it really is perfect."
"Holy ground?" Mulder asked, obviously confused as he followed Methos
from the sheltered overhang of the side entrance where they'd parked.
"This used to be a mission," he responded, leading Mulder deeper into
the building. "During your Civil War it became both a hospital and a
morgue." Methos flipped on his torch, shining it around the cavernous
room. "Later, when the area fell into disrepute the church turned it
into a food bank and homeless shelter. Eventually, when even they
refused to come into the area it was abandoned. A few years back I
purchased the place. Life lesson, Mulder. A man can never own too much
holy real estate."
There was silence from behind and Methos smiled in the dark waiting
for the obvious question.
"Would you be insulted, Pierson, if I said your investment strategy
was creepy?"
That wasn't the question, but Methos laughed and told him anyway.
"Sacred ground, Mulder. It's the only place we can't kill each other.
No immortal will ever violate that rule. So, no matter what the lovely
Agent Scully might think, you are perfectly safe here. Even from me."
"Any sacred ground of any religion?"
"Anyone's church," Methos agreed as he started up the wide, solid
stairs. "Even what you'd consider pagan."
"What about the Church of Satan?"
He paused in his step, glancing nervously back at Mulder. "Now that's
creepy." Where did he come up with these things?
"It's hallowed ground to somebody, even if it is the antithesis of God
and therefore technically unholy," Mulder insisted with a grin.
"Then I expect one would think twice about it," he replied tartly. "At
least," he murmured, "I hope they would. Some of these younger
immortals do seem a bit flighty."
Mulder ignored the obvious rebuke as Methos continued climbing. "What
happens if someone breaks the rule?"
"No one really knows," Methos answered honestly. "But there is a story
of two immortals mixing it up in a temple just before Mount Vesuvius
erupted ever so spectacularly."
Before Mulder could begin speculating about the nature of God and
immortality, or some other such nonsense, Methos reached the second
floor landing, turned into the entrance to his hidden loft and
switched on the overhead track lighting.
"Home sweet home," Methos said with a grin as he tossed his keys onto
a recessed shelf that ran the length of one wall.
Mulder blinked as his eyes readjusted to the light and wandered over
the huge sparsely furnished room. Egg shell white walls, pale oak
floors with matching shutters on the long narrow windows, a few
scattered white rugs, a king sized platform bed of the same pale oak,
a desk, a few chairs, and a state of the art entertainment center.
With the exception of a few carefully placed objets de art, that made
up the entire contents of the room.
Mulder nodded as if he suddenly understood something which had be
bothering him. Adam Pierson was a great deal older than he'd like
people to believe. "Spend a lot of time in Sparta, Pierson?"
Methos glared at him. "Don't be insulting. A duller group of war
mongers never existed. Corinth," he added. "Now that was the place to
be. Everybody went to Corinth."
"I thought Athens was the place to be?" Mulder asked, putting his bags
down.
"It had its moments, but Corinth was consistently entertaining."
Well, Mulder thought as he wandered over to a beautifully preserved
figure of a man about to toss a javelin, that placed him at around 500
BC. Maybe earlier. Interesting. "So, how old is the oldest immortal?"
Methos shrugged and went to get himself a beer from the small
kitchenette hidden neatly behind a set of folding panels. "Who knows,"
he told Mulder, handing him a bottle as he found a seat on one of the
scattered chairs. "There are myths, of course. Eventually you'll hear
them. Supposedly, the oldest immortal is a man named Methos and has
lived for five thousand years."
"Methuselah?" Mulder asked, astonishment rounding his eyes.
Methos shrugged again. "Wouldn't know. Never met the man. Frankly, I
don't believe he even exists. Maybe he did once, but I think he's
dead. It stands to reason, doesn't it? How could any man survive that
long without someone taking his head?" Mulder nodded thoughtfully, but
said nothing. "Another life lesson, Mulder. The older you get the more
powerful you become and are perceived to be."
"More power, so more challenges," Mulder surmised. "Still," he went
on. "That's a lot of years. A life that long... Terrible and wonderful
things to be remembered." Mulder suddenly smiled. "If I were that old
I wouldn't worry about losing my head to another immortal, I'd worry
about some secret government think tank finding out about me and
locking me in a basement laboratory somewhere trying to figure out
what made me tick."
Methos stared at him blandly. "Whatever for?"
Mulder shook his head, took a sip of his beer and found his own seat.
"Curiosity. Jealousy. Greed. Or," he shrugged. "Just because they felt
like it. Who says they need a reason? It's a thing they don't have.
Something they don't control. Knowledge they might need, or would
merely like to possess."
Methos stared, refusing to betray the anxiety this caused him. "That's
a bit paranoid, isn't it?"
"Yes. And? Since when has that ever stopped the government, or any of
the shadow governments from doing whatever they want to do?"
"Shadow governments? This is America, Mulder, there are no shadow
governments here."
Mulder snorted in contempt. "Tell that to Scully, who was made barren
because she got in their way. Or to my sister, Samantha, who was taken
for their experiments. Or my father, who was murdered by one of their
agents. Try telling that to the thousands of Americans who've been
victimized by these same individuals over the years. They'll tell you
I'm not paranoid enough in spite of what I've seen."
Methos looked away, saddened by what he was hearing. He'd only meant
to distract Mulder from pursuing the question of his age.
"Listen, Mulder. It isn't that I don't believe you. It's just that
it's been my experience that these government conspiracies have a
short shelf life. Factions are by nature fractious. The lust for power
becomes all consuming and they burn themselves out fairly quickly."
"Historically speaking that's true," Mulder agreed. "Unless there's an
outside agency fueling the conspiracy. Creating a mindset of purpose,
if not of unity."
"And you know of something that powerful, that frightening?"
Mulder grimaced wryly and finished his beer. "Know of it? I was a key
player. Back in the day," Mulder sighed almost wistfully. "We brought
them down, but we couldn't make them pay. At least we avoided the
apocalypse."
Now that got Methos' attention. "Apocalypse?"
"Alien invasion," Mulder told him as casually as if such things
happened every day.
"Right. Okay, no more beer for you, friend."
Mulder turned melancholy eyes on him. "It wasn't going to be what you
think. Not the kind of pyrotechnic movie invasion that I'm sure you're
imagining. You'll find the records in a sealed vault at the CDC.
Remember the bubonic plague epidemic of 2008 that never happened?"
"Remember it?" Methos nodded slowly. "I lived through the nightmare of
the first. It was the only time I've ever supported a declaration of
martial law and house to house searches for those who refused to go to
an inoculation center."
Mulder sighed. "It was the only excuse we could think of to get
everybody inoculated. No one would have believed an invasion in the
form of a sentient virus that digested its human host as it gestated."
Methos didn't bother to hide his disbelief. "Look, Mulder, I'm fairly
old and I've never even heard of such a thing."
Mulder shrugged and stood. It had been a long eventful day and he
really needed some sleep. "Believe what you like, Pierson. I know what
I've seen. And I've long since passed the point where I needed others
to embrace the truth -- only that they learn it. That way, when the
shit hits the fan they can't say they didn't know -- they just refused
to believe."
In silence, Methos helped him carry his bags to the extra bedroom
upstairs, thinking his new student had some pretty odd ideas. Still,
he'd believed in demons and spirits all his life. Given the nature of
his existence it stood to reason that there was a higher power
involved somewhere. But if what Mulder said was true, and he had no
doubt that the man believed what he was saying, then what role did
immortals play in the world? Were they merely bit players in the great
drama, destined to forever kill and be killed somewhere to the left of
center stage? Or was this, he wondered suddenly as he told his guest
goodnight, what had averted the Gathering? He'd felt it. They'd all
felt it. The need to travel to this continent to fight for The Prize.
The building up of energies in every sinew of the body until there was
nothing to do but fight. Then, without warning, it had stopped.
Methos hurried down the stairs to his own bed, nervously running a
hand through his hair. The timing was about right, if he recalled
correctly. December, 2007? Wasn't that when the real killing started?
When rumblings of a possible epidemic had begun. And a few months
later, right about the time martial law had been implemented it had
ended.
And they'd all been inoculated. No getting around that, even if
immortals couldn't catch the plague. He'd been quarantined and rounded
up with the rest of Joe's patrons one day.
And after that? Yes. It was after that, he thought with no small
amount of astonishment. The need to fight, the feeling that if he
didn't fill himself to the brim with Quickening after Quickening he
would somehow burst at the seams had all just dissipated. At the time,
he'd merely been relieved. But now? He reached for the phone eager to
tell Joe and exchange ideas.
No. Methos tucked his cell back in his pocket. No, this he would keep
to himself. Even if the coming of the Gathering was somehow linked to
Mulder's averted alien invasion it didn't necessarily mean anything.
And if no one believed Mulder, they certainly had no reason to believe
him. The oldest, most powerful immortal in the world claiming the
Gathering had come, gone and been a complete non-event? When they'd
got done laughing at him they'd hunt him down just for the amusement
of cutting out his foolish tongue right before taking his head.
***
"Do it again," Methos repeated despite the fact that Mulder had gotten
the movements down perfectly after the first few times. He ignored the
sour expression and went back to his paper. There was the clang of
metal hitting concrete and he looked up to find Mulder standing in the
middle of the floor, hands on his hips, breathing hard and obviously
annoyed.
"Why? You're not even watching to see if I got it right!"
Methos hid a smile. He'd wondered how long it would take to piss him
off. "You've got it right. Now you have to make it part of you. The
basic moves are easy. Coming out of a sound sleep into the middle of a
fight and keeping your head, now that's hard." Mulder took a deep
breath and nodded, bending down to pick up the sword he'd tossed
aside. "And don't treat good steel like that," he chided. "Respect
your weapon. It should become as much a part of you as your hand."
Mulder bowed, "Yes, Master Yoda," and moved back into first position.
"I rather thought of myself as that Quon-gi fellow Liam Neeson
played," he murmured, going back to his reading. "Now there was a Jedi
master." A moment later his cell phone rang and he pulled it out.
"Hey Joe," he answered after seeing the familiar number on his caller
ID. "You're up early." After a moment's pause he shook his head.
"That's not good. Sounds like the seepage has been going on for a
while. That's going to cost mucho dinero to repair." He caught Mulder
eavesdropping with half an ear and frowned. "Joe, hold on a sec," he
said quietly. "Pay attention to what you're doing!" he shouted at
Mulder, who didn't trouble to look embarrassed. "Either keep on
correctly, or just put it aside. Losing your concentration in the
middle of a fight is not an option." To his credit, Mulder grinned and
went back to his pattern without missing a single stroke.
Methos heard Joe laughing and sighed. "Yes, I've taken on a student.
Mulder? Why ever would you think that?" He smiled and nodded at the
man, who'd paused as he heard his name mentioned and correctly put up
his sword. "Yes, I spoke with him and he didn't exactly agree to help,
but then he didn't blow me off, either. Said he'd look into the matter
and alert the locals if there was anything going on that might affect
the civil peace." Methos grinned at Joe's comment, giving Mulder a
thumbs up. "Yes, I thought so too. Now, I've got to get back to the
little one or he's likely to cut something important off."
A moment later they'd said their good-byes and Methos waved for Mulder
to go on. It was a good thing Joe had suggested he be Mulder's Watcher
for the time being since he had to stay in town for a while to do the
student-teacher thing. Otherwise, someone might get suspicious. And a
curious Scot was an annoying Scot. The last thing he needed was to
give Mulder a giant dose of sanctimonious pabulum. Fighting in the
name of Justice was all well and fine when you were as good with a
sword as MacLeod. But Mulder was new to The Game and Methos had seen
what happened to Ritchie, Macleod's long dead student, when he'd tried
to follow in his senior's footsteps. That wasn't Methos' style. First,
he'd teach Mulder how to fight, instilling in him a bit of cynical
self-preservation to keep him alive. Then he could play The Game
however he wanted and, consequently, get on with his life.
*
Mulder awoke with a painful gasp anxiously reaching for his heart.
There was a clink of bottles to his side and he rolled over, staring
with horrified eyes at his teacher casually kicking back with a cool
one.
Methos raised a brow as Mulder got to his feet and angrily stalked
forward. "You fucking put a sword through my heart!"
"Yes, and remember it, because the next time you screw up a move I
know you can do blind I'm going to do it again." He watched the anger
drain out of his student with a silent nod. They didn't have time to
do this easy and Mulder knew that. In a few weeks he had to return to
work and now that he'd graduated to mock fights they were going to do
this dirty and hard. "You have a bad habit of pulling your blows, and
while I appreciate the consideration, I won't tolerate it. If you
can't deliver a death stroke, you'll never disable your opponent
enough to take his head. Got that?"
Mulder nodded, his expression telling Methos that the idea of actually
playing The Game was becoming far too real. Tough, Methos thought,
reaching for his sword. For all his bizarre notions of alien
abductions and genetically mutated viruses he'd grown to like Mulder.
If he had to be a little cruel he'd do it if it meant the man would
survive. Someday he might even give MacLeod a run for his money in a
contest of arms.
"Good. Now let's go on to--" Methos stiffened as he felt the buzz of a
strange immortal and looked nervously around. The last he'd heard
MacLeod was in China on a buying trip, having gone into the
import/export business. And besides, he doubted the Scot would try to
track him down. Which meant this was probably a stranger. And whether
they were here to a purpose or simply by accident neither mattered.
"Wait here," he told Mulder.
Moving closer to the main entrance of the first floor hall where
they'd been practicing Methos loosely, but carefully held his sword.
"This is holy ground!" he called out. "Show yourself or be gone!"
"Rapist!" a familiar voice hissed and Methos sighed, sheathing his
sword.
"Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, Cassandra." A woman,
tall, dark hair flowing past her shoulders and very beautiful, even
wearing a snarl, stepped into the light. "I'm busy here. Now get out."
Cassandra gave him a nasty smile. "I'm not here for you, Methos. I've
come to have a word with your student."
"Leave him alone. He has nothing to do with this."
She ignored him and turned to Mulder, whose face had gone still and
expressionless. "Come with me..."
Her voice echoed in the cavernous hall, vibrating dully inside
Mulder's head. The compulsion to go with her was negligible enough to
disregard and his eyes widened with curiosity instead. "How'd you do
that?"
Both Methos and the woman looked surprised.
"Cassandra is a witch."
"Really? A real witch? With powers and everything? Cool."
Cassandra remained silent for a moment. The Voice hadn't worked, but
the truth, Methos knew, just might. He'd dreaded this moment for over
a month now. The moment when Mulder found out his dirty little secret
and walked out. And with Cassandra as unbalanced as she'd been in
recent years, she just might take his head for spite.
"Come with me," she told Mulder again. This time leaving out the mind
tricks. "I'll find you a better teacher. One with honor."
Mulder cocked his head. "Why don't you tell me what you mean by that
and let me decide."
Cassandra gave Methos a look of triumph. "That man you call friend is
a liar. A murdering rapist who kills for pleasure. A thousand years he
rode to the hunt, destroying every living thing he came across. Death,
that's what we called him. Death on a horse. He and his band of
bloodthirsty riders. Their evil and their memory live even now in your
Bible."
"That was three thousand years ago," Methos interjected. "People
change! I've changed!"
"You change?" Cassandra laughed harshly. "You're the same as you ever
were. Using him for your own ends. Playing at kindness. You don't know
the meaning of the word."
"Oh, but I do! You taught me that. Do you think I ever had a captive I
treated like you? Kronos saw that. That's why he demanded you. To
sully what we had."
"What we had? What you had!" she spat.
Methos nodded. "Maybe. Yes," he shrugged. "What I had then. But still,
I let you go. I saw you run and didn't call out. I wanted you free."
"Liar! You didn't want to share!"
"And why was that, Cassandra? Could it possibly be that I felt
something for you other than lust?"
"You can't feel anything!"
"Enough!" Mulder interrupted. "I've heard enough. You," he told
Methos, "go upstairs. I want to talk to her alone."
Methos stared at Mulder, but his expression was unreadable. With a
disgusted sigh he turned to go. "Don't leave the building," he called
without looking back. "Remember, you're still on holy ground."
"I will have your head!" Cassandra called after him. "I swear it!"
"Threaten him later, ma'am," he heard Mulder tell her as he reached
the landing. "I'm a Federal agent and if you do that again I'll have
to arrest you."
Methos choked back a laugh and went inside. God, he would really love
to have seen her expression!
*
Mulder found him a while later sipping a whiskey. "So, have you made
your decision?" Methos asked casually.
Mulder crossed his arms and leaned against the door jam. "I made that
one a few weeks ago. I just needed to give her a chance to calm down."
"So what did you say to her?"
"I asked if she'd ever been in therapy and pointed out that taking
your Quickening would be the worst possible thing. If she hates the
thought of one part of your anatomy having been inside her, just think
what having all of you in there would mean."
Methos raised an eyebrow at that. "Look," he began apologetically. "I
know how you feel about knowing the truth and all, but..."
Mulder held up a hand. "Don't. It isn't necessary. I suspected as much
from some of the things you've let slip. And the truth is, if you
hadn't already gone through a period of temporary insanity I'd be
really worried."
"A thousand years isn't temporary," he admitted sadly. "And I was old
when I started."
Mulder shook his head. "Doesn't matter. You reached a point where you
lived through one too many horrors and became the horror yourself."
Methos smiled. "Don't kid yourself, Mulder. I enjoyed it. I was a
monster and I liked it."
"I don't doubt," Mulder agreed. "But monsters can be made. Take my
word for it."
"Crap!" Methos insisted. "I ought to know, I studied with Freud."
"I'm not a Freudian."
"I also studied with Jung."
"I'm not a Jungian, or any other ian for that matter. I'm a criminal
psychologist with a specialization in abnormal behavior. I've spent
most of my career profiling mass murderers, serial killers, and
deviant sociopaths. And though I've never actually profiled you, I can
guess what category you fall into."
"Do tell," Methos snorted and focused on his drink.
"You were a 'made' psychopath. A far more common occurrence than most
people would like to believe. Kick anyone enough times and they'll
kick back. And the more peaceful they were when you started the more
dangerous they'll be when they finally snap. Historically speaking, I
could name you a dozen who became military leaders."
Methos looked up, clearly startled. "So what does that make me now?"
Mulder sighed deeply. "Truthfully? I don't know. Most made psychopaths
suicide when they figure it out, taking their truly psychopathic and
sociopathic followers with them. I do know one thing. You are not
suffering from any form of aberrant psychopathy. Not even a controlled
psychopath could hide it for as long as we've been here, especially
not with someone who knows what they're looking at when they see it."
Methos bowed his head and rubbed his face with his hands. "That still
doesn't change what I did," he whispered.
"No, it doesn't," Mulder agreed, coming forward to sit near him. "But
you know that. And what's more important, you feel guilt. The
criterion for parole in this country is a full and complete
understanding of one's actions. A comprehension of the pain and
suffering inflicted on the victim. I can think of no better punishment
than for you to live a year for every innocent life you've taken
carrying the weight of that guilt."
Methos stood and moved away. "And what about Cassandra? I did what she
said."
Mulder rose and nodded. "I know you did. And much as I find it
distasteful personally, I can't presume to judge a man, let alone a
culture three thousand years dead. And that man is dead, Methos."
Sorrowful eyes turned in his direction. "But will he live again?"
"No," Mulder told him honestly. "The triggers are gone. Once a man's
been broken he can't be broken again, and the broken place is actually
stronger than the rest."
Methos simply nodded, his voice filled with exhaustion. "You know, I
don't want to fight her."
"That was obvious. But just because you'd like to say to yourself that
there's at least one person from that time in your life you didn't
kill doesn't make it's true. The woman she was before you took her is
dead. The body goes on, the personality remains the same, but
Cassandra died the day you took her against her will. That said, who
she is now has nothing to do with you. She's done what the vast
majority of assault victims do. She's let you get inside her head and
stay there. She gives the memory power over her by refusing to take
that power back. Until she does, she'll remain fixated on you. And,
yes, I told her that, too."
Again Methos nodded tiredly. "Could we change the subject, please?"
"Not before I make a professional observation." Methos frowned, but
listened.
"I'll give you the same advice I gave Cassandra. Go find yourself a
therapist who's dealt with POW's and torture victims. Whatever
catastrophic event occurred in your life to send you reeling towards
self-destruction still has power over you." With that Mulder left him
to go downstairs and continue his training.
Methos sighed. Good advice, really, and he knew it was true. But how
did one get therapy for an event or series of events one couldn't
recall? And if he could, was it anything he'd really want to remember?
He doubted it. May all the gods forgive him, he thought, finishing his
drink, but better to let it just rest.
***
"Adam?"
A surprised Methos poked his head out of the shower. "Joe?" He grabbed
his robe and went into the living area. "How the hell did you... Oh,"
he nodded. "Cassandra's Watcher."
Joe nodded and made his way over to a chair. "I figured it was you
from the description. Not of you," he clarified seeing the nervous
look on the other man's face. "But from the way she was behaving. What
did you do anyway? She's been wandering the streets for days snapping
at everybody."
"Guess she didn't like what I had to say."
Joe turned in his seat, staring at the other man.
"Joe Dawson meet Fox Mulder, my student."
Joe shook his head. "You could have told me it was him. I wouldn't
have been so worried when Cassandra appeared."
"I'm a secretive bastard," Methos shrugged. "You know this."
"You're not immortal," Mulder interrupted, having learned to ignore
the irascible side of his teacher.
Joe grinned. "Nope. Not even pre-immie," he rapped his prosthetic
legs, "luckily."
Mulder moved into the room and took a seat as well. "So, what's a
Watcher?"
The older man winced uncomfortably. "Heard that did you?"
"It's a long story," Methos interjected. "And frankly, not very
interesting."
Joe nodded in agreement. "It's really, really boring."
"Uh huh," Mulder grunted, obviously not believing a word of it. "Well
it appears, given our friend Adam here, that I could have as much as
five thousand years worth of listening left to me."
Joe's mouth hung open. "You know? He knows?"
"He knows," Methos sighed. "Cassandra never was very discreet."
"Why would she be?" Mulder asked rhetorically. "What do you imagine
her fondest wish is?"
"I'd rather not, if you don't mind," Methos responded testily. "As for
The Watchers, they're a secret society of, well, watchers. They watch
immortals do what they do, record it all for posterity, but never
interfere. Usually. See? Very boring. Now, if you'll both excuse me,
I'm going to dress."
"Take your time," Joe grinned, chuckling as Methos rolled his eyes
disgustedly. When he'd disappeared back into the bathroom Dawson
leaned forward conspiratorially. "So, what's he like?"
Mulder's eyes crinkled in confusion. "I thought you knew him."
"Yeah, but I met him as Adam Pierson, squeaky clean geek and
endearingly annoying grad student. I've never actually been able to
get to know the real Methos, immortal warrior and scourge of history.
So, what's he really like?"
"In comparison to what?" Mulder teased.
Joe sighed despairingly.
"Stop pumping him for information," Methos chided as he stepped out of
the bathroom, barefoot and dressed only in a pair of jeans. "Now,
anybody want a beer?"
"It's seven o'clock in the morning," Mulder protested.
"Right. Anybody else want a beer?"
*
Breakfast had been Methos' favorite. Beer and sausages. Lunch had been
the left over sausages, bread with cheese and yet more beer -- a never
ending supply of which seem to flow out of a storage room in the back
of the old mission. Now, as Methos was making dinner, beer fortified
rabbit stuffed with sausages, Mulder watched him with a bemused
expression.
In between long bouts of conversation, ranging from topics such as the
origins of beer, upon which Methos waxed eloquent, to the origins of
blues, where Joe's expertise held sway, he finally decided he really
did like Methos. Oh, he'd thought about whether he did or not prior to
Cassandra's appearance, but at that point he'd still had far too many
questions to make an informed decision. After, he'd been cautious,
because Methos had been -- afraid to get too close in case Cassandra's
words came back to haunt Mulder and his student openly rejected him.
Always before Mulder had wondered if the man had been play acting. And
to some extent that was certainly the case. But seeing him share a
beer and conversation with his average Joe, Mulder realized that much
of the play acting was Methos as he had been. The underlying
personality that time had filled with anger and cynicism. No wonder
Dawson couldn't tell where Adam began and Methos ended. There was more
of Adam in Methos than there was ancient immortal warrior king. Still,
Mulder knew he should never discount the ruthless aspect of the man
which must be there. That would be naive in the extreme.
As Mulder reached for his beer the sudden buzz he'd learned to
identify as an approaching immortal hit him square in the center of
his forehead. At the same time, Methos turned towards the door
listening intently as heavy footsteps sounded loudly on the stairs.
"MacLeod," he muttered, wearing a vexed expression and turning furious
eyes on Joe.
Dawson shook his head. "Wasn't me. Must have been--"
The door flew open and slammed against the wall, shattering the
plaster. "What did you do to Cassandra?!"
"Who said he did anything?" Mulder blurted before either Joe or Methos
could stop him.
"Who the hell are--" MacLeod paused. "I know you. The FBI agent." He
discounted Mulder immediately, turning instead to Joe. "What's he
doing here?" He twitched his head in Mulder's direction.
"Ah," Joe hesitated, looking helplessly at Methos.
"He's my student," Methos told him coldly. "And I think you'd better
leave."
"I'll leave when you answer my question. What did you do to Cassie?"
"He didn't do anything." Mulder stood and moved between the two men.
"I told her the truth. That she needed to seriously consider having a
psychiatric evaluation and hospitalization."
The vengeful expression on MacLeod's face was all Mulder needed. Even
as the big man moved to hit him Mulder ducked, shoving the indignant
Highlander hard into the wall and slapping a pair of handcuffs on him.
"Don't fuck with me, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he growled
angrily. "I'm not in the mood for it."
MacLeod twisted around until he was facing the room. "And what gives
you the right to say anything to her? You don't know her. You don't
know what she's been through!"
"But I do. She told me. Of course, first she tried to seduce me into
leaving using some kind of mind trick. But hey, it was a novel
approach, so I let it slide."
MacLeod took a deep breath. "So you know, that still doesn't give you
the right."
Mulder shrugged and pushed away from him. "I just call 'em as I see
'em. The woman needs psychiatric care. If you're really her friend
you'll see that she gets it -- before someone figures out that if she
knows Methos from back in the day it would be far simpler to take her
head right then and there than to wander the world searching for a
myth."
MacLeod seemed shocked at the suggestion, looking to Joe and Methos
for confirmation.
Dawson shrugged. "He's right, Mac. She's playing a dangerous game.
This isn't the first time she's tried to convince some poor kid to go
after Methos."
"And don't I know it," the immortal in question complained bitterly.
"She trains them up just to throw them at me in the hope one will
succeed."
This time MacLeod looked to Mulder, who nodded shortly. "As soon as we
were alone," he confirmed, "she tried it on me."
Some of the air seemed to drain from MacLeod's sails and he sagged
against the wall. He closed his eyes and nodded. "You can remove
these," he clinked the metal gently.
Joe nodded. "Take 'em off, Mulder. He's gotten it out of his system.
Now, he'll listen to reason."
Mulder stared at the man then went to do as he'd requested, hoping Joe
would be able to talk some sense into the man. From what he'd learned
during the past few hours Cassandra had done quite a number on the
young Duncan. Even going so far as to seduce him as a boy of thirteen
in order to plant the idea in his little pre-immortal head that one
day he would face a great battle against evil. The evil being her
former teacher, a powerful warlock she couldn't defeat.
Before leaving he turned to Methos and caught his eye, silently asking
that he give them some privacy. MacLeod was not going to like what Joe
had to say and he'd like it even less with an audience.
"You think he'll listen?" Mulder asked, just to have something to say
as he led the way to the roof. He'd discovered that at sunset he could
see the back of the New Hoover's garage. He kept hoping for a glimpse
of red hair just to reassure himself that Scully was all right. Still,
he had her e-mails and he'd even phoned her a couple of times. She was
worried, but surviving.
Methos went to edge and took a seat on the parapet. "Who knows," he
sighed. "MacLeod can be the most pigheaded, stubborn, narrow-
minded..." With a shake of his head he turned and dangled his feet
over the side. "Depends on how Joe explains the situation, I guess."
Mulder moved to sit as well, knowing there could be no better time to
have this discussion. "So tell me, how did you become one of the Four
Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"
Methos gave him a sideways glance, no doubt wondering if Mulder really
wanted to hear it, or was fishing for useful tidbits to use as
ammunition. Either way, Mulder thought, it was more than MacLeod had
apparently done. According to Joe, he hadn't been all that interested.
Finally, Methos seemed to decide he had no ulterior motive and began
slowly, almost desultory.
"I'd been working as a mercenary, I don't know for how long really. My
employer was the son of some petty Assyrian king, I think. I didn't
really care who paid me at the time as long as I got my money. I can't
remember much before that. Except for a few odd bits and pieces that
really stand out it's all a blur. I do remember that I'd been around a
while. A couple of thousand years more or less, maybe.
"Anyway, I met up with Silas first. Of all of us he was perhaps the
most honest. Put him on a battlefield and he tore through the enemy
like they were stands of wheat. A berserker plain and simple. Hand him
a homeless puppy and he was as gentle with it as a mum with her new
born baby." Methos paused to swallow his tears. "I had to kill him,
you know. He was a big, dangerous beast of a man, but I liked him."
Mulder said nothing, wondering what it must be like to carry not only
the memory of a friend in your mind, but his soul as well. He hoped he
never learned how it felt.
"Be that as it may," Methos finally went on. "Caspian was an entirely
different story. In fact," Methos glanced at Mulder. "Given your
profession you may have even heard of his last incarnation. Evan
Caspari."
"Caspari," Mulder murmured, rolling the name around. "The Romanian
serial killer? The one who escaped about twenty years back?" Methos
nodded. "Jesus, I was sent to Paris to work with Interpol on the
original task force. Nasty piece of work that bastard. Never could
find a trace of him though."
Methos nodded. "Trust me, he never got the chance to harm anyone.
MacLeod saw to that."
Mulder nodded, filing the information away. He'd make a note of it
when he got back and pass the word to Interpol that Caspari was
definitely out of action.
"A nasty piece of work," Methos continued with a nod. "Caspian was
exactly that. Not much of a fighter, but what he lacked in skill he
made up for in horror. He wasn't much of a threat to me, not with
Silas around. And he really wasn't interested in The Game, except for
figuring he'd been granted immortality to pursue his own devices. The
seal of approval by the gods and all that. If he had to take a head
now and again, risking his own life in the process he figured it was a
fair trade.
"Then Kronos showed up. He was there for the big battle. Our petty
king was making a move on another petty king, albeit one with a real
city inside his border. Two little men fighting over a pile of mud
brick huts. That's how I saw it at any rate. But it paid well, the
beer was fresh and the food was decent enough." Methos sighed and
smiled wryly, shaking his head.
"Anyway, Kronos was a bit more complex than the others. He was
actually capable of real sustained thought. Of course, it all centered
around being known as the biggest, the badest and the meanest, but at
least he had a plan.
"When the battle was over and our petty king came out on top we all
got our walking papers. Mercenaries are useful in a fight, but heaven
help you if you keep them around during peace time. But that was okay,
too. I had a big bag of gold and all the armor I'd stripped from the
dead on the other side. That stuff makes great trophies, by the way,
especially if you could find some nobleman's son who was too afraid to
actually get right in the fighting. They'd pay a fortune for a banged
up helmet or a rusty sword just so they could go home and claim they'd
taken it in single combat. Made a better trade if you hung around to
give them a really good story that would bug out the relatives eyes."
Methos chuckled at Mulder's expression. Not horror or fear, but
intensely fascinated. "So, where was I? Oh, yes. Kronos." Methos
paused and sighed. "I remember the day he told me his plan. We were in
a bath house at some temple, I forget which god, but apparently one
who liked his worshipers clean. I usually avoided him, although I have
to admit a large part of me was attracted to the picture he painted.
We were gods. Earthbound and condemned to squabble amongst ourselves,
but still gods. Instead of hiring ourselves out to whatever little
king happened to be in a greedy mood at the moment and hope like hell
we didn't accidentally 'die' in battle before we got paid, we should
band together and make them pay us tribute instead. Of course, we
couldn't take on an entire army, but with hit and run strikes we could
cause enough terror to incite the tithe paying populace who would
eventually demand our price be met. And that, ultimately, was our
mistake."
Mulder laughed softly and nodded. "Those who could ran to towns which
grew into cities, which built bigger walls, which fielded bigger
armies and were therefore able to protect more of their property.
Without meaning to you spurred on the growth of modern civilization.
That must have irked Kronos."
Methos grimaced wryly and nodded. "We'd started out as raiders and
briefly became wealthy warrior princes. By the time I came across
Cassandra we were already on a downward slide. We didn't roam across
two continents because we liked to travel. The pickings just got slim.
And every time a new king was crowned he'd come marching out into the
countryside with his army, putting on a show for the indigenous crowd
and refusing to pay our tribute. Eventually, most of the undefended
villages had been replaced by small cities where the people came out
only during the day to tend their crops. We spent more time sabotaging
irrigation ditches that we did fighting for a while. Quite a come
down, wouldn't you say?"
"So what made you leave?"
Methos shrugged. "Probably the same reason I'd originally stayed.
Fear. I was afraid of being alone. And with the others I didn't have
to fight for every scrap and mouthful only to lose it when a bigger,
stronger immortal came and tried to take what I had. We shared
everything. And our one rule was never to raise a hand against each
other. We called ourselves brothers and we meant it. After a while, I
thought myself happy. I was Death and I was good at it. I was Death
and I took pride in it. I was Death and I never saw the end coming."
He paused for a long moment and sighed. "It wasn't Cassandra's escape
that triggered my departure. In fact, I had to stay on several years
after that just to make certain Kronos didn't suspect what I was
planning. I'd really been thinking about it for a while. At some
point, I'm not sure when, we raided this pathetic little caravan. For
our trouble we came back with a few bolts of cloth, a handful of
painted baubles and a dozen or so books -- scrolls actually -- and
some slaves.
"I could read, of course, but Egyptian, Assyrian, Akkadian and
Sumerian are nothing like Greek writing. So I forced one of the new
slaves to teach me. Probably told him I'd sell him to a good house
where they wouldn't beat him too regularly. And since people back then
were a lot more practical and pessimistically accepting of whatever
fate the gods ordained, he agreed."
Methos shook his head and smiled. "Those books were it really. They
made me start to think."
"What were they?" Mulder asked curiously.
"The collected works of King Philip of Macedonia, Alexander the
Great's daddy. He wrote about the proper disposition and rule of a
city. How duty, honor and courage could make a man of the most humble
means into a great leader. He insisted that talent and not patronage
be used to determine who ruled -- after all, he was an elected king.
He wrote about what part philosophy and education could play in the
betterment of the individual. And, well, all sorts of crazy, dangerous
new ideas that were considered scandalous in those days. Even the
broad minded Athenians were shocked."
A smile played at Mulder's lips at the passion he heard in Methos'
description, as if the man were rediscovering all those ideas once
again.
"It shocked me too, I can tell you," he went on. "I couldn't stop
thinking about it. I made the mistake of telling Kronos and he made me
live to regret it. I could see him after that ever so subtly
undermining my position with the others. Making them think less of me,
questioning my orders, double checking with him about my suggestions.
I suppose, looking back, I took Cassandra because I felt isolated. I
needed someone to need and respect me. Only me. When I finally left I
took the coward's way out. I found some poor mortal who resembled me,
took his head and left him for dead."
They sat quietly for a long moment until Mulder sighed and slapped the
other man's shoulder lightly. "It's a good story, but it still doesn't
beat 'my sister was abducted by aliens and I saved our planet from the
invasion'."
Methos pursed his lips thoughtfully and nodded. "No it doesn't. But
what have you done lately?"
There was a noise from behind and they both turned to see MacLeod
standing in the shadows. Mulder had no idea how long he'd been there,
but he suspected from the big Scot's expression that it had been long
enough to overhear most of what Methos had said.
"Duncan," Methos greeted him quietly.
"You'll want to turn the oven down in a bit."
Methos nodded diffidently and Mulder raised an eyebrow at the inane
comment. A moment later, MacLeod silently turned away and headed down
the stairs. All the way down and out to his car which Mulder heard
revving in the distance.
"He'll be back," Methos commented. "He loves my rabbit with sausage."
Mulder stared in disbelief. "After all that?"
Methos shrugged. "MacLeod means well, but he's very young. Far
younger, emotionally and psychologically even than you."
"How old is he, exactly?"
"Exactly? Four hundred and twenty-three."
"And what's the median age among immortals?"
"Eleven hundred years. It's a young man's game. Most immortals get
sloppy after the first millennium. We start to believe in our own
immortality, lose our edge and start making mistakes. Or worse, we
can't move forward. An inability to change with the times that leads
to self-destructive behavior. You're lucky in a way, Mulder."
"How's that?"
"Most immortals don't get the opportunity to live out their first life
span normally. I died in my early twenties and like most immortals
born before this century was cast out of my village. Even MacLeod, who
was a chieftain's son was exiled from his people. You can't imagine
what that means. To be loved one day, feared and hated the next, not
knowing the how or why of it. We died very publicly and there was no
doubting that we were not like the others of our clans, or anyone else
for that matter. And being foundlings didn't help. You, on the other
hand..."
"Died on national television and CNN."
Methos grinned. "Not quite, but you were alive when they found you and
seeing you rise from the ashes made the country happy. So no one was
willing to look any further than that. But it's given you something
most of us don't get. A chance to have a real life where you can have
a beginning, a middle and an end of your own choosing. And, more
importantly, you've had the opportunity to live as mortal for more
than fifty years. There's something to be said for that. You've
matured as any individual must, aware of your own mortality. That,
believe it or not, colors the way you view the events of your life.
You learn from your mistakes, knowing that because you have so little
time every day means more as you age. So, in many ways, you are more
like Joe than you are like Mac or me."
Methos turned from the edge of the roof and stood. "And while four and
quarter centuries may seem like a great deal of time to you, in my
eyes MacLeod is young enough to be allowed a bit of slack. He's a good
man at heart, though he is still very much a product of his upbringing
and judging the world around him from that point of view. So, in an
hour he'll be back with an expensive bottle of wine and I'll invite
him to sit at my table and share a meal with me. In spite of the fact
that he's been rude and obnoxious. And in spite of the fact that he
thinks Cassandra can do no wrong. Because life really is too short and
good friends, no matter how screwed up, are incredibly hard to find."
With that, he turned and left, leaving Mulder behind to sit and ponder
his own life, and what if anything, when the time came to leave, he
would say to Scully.
***
"So, there we were in Antarctica. Stranded and freezing when--"
Someone's cell phone rang, interrupting Mulder's story. Four men
searched their pockets, but only Mulder came up lucky.
"Hey Scully, missing me?" he grinned.
Mulder's face went still, brow furrowing as he listened. Methos shared
a glance with MacLeod, who gave a negligible shrug. Students who went
on with their normal lives after first death were extremely rare, so
anything was to be expected. Suddenly, Mulder's eyes shot to MacLeod
then quickly moved away as he rose and ambled to the other side of the
room talking quietly into the phone.
"I can be there in ten minutes," they heard him say as he turned,
heading for the door. "No, I'm not at my apartment. I'm staying with
a friend in the city. See you there."
Methos got to his feet and hurried after him. "Where are you going?"
"To work," Mulder told him, briskly taking the stairs to his room.
"You can't leave," Methos insisted, following him up. "We aren't
done."
Mulder didn't bother to stop as he collected his weapon and checked
the clip. "I'll come back, but right now I have to go."
"Why? What could possibly be more important than your life?"
"I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."
"All right," Methos nodded. "I understand the call of duty. But give
me a minute and I'll drive you."
Mulder shook his head. "I can't take a civilian to a crime scene."
"Then I'll loan you the car, but give me a minute to get something."
Mulder nodded, whipping off his sweat and dirt stained tee shirt.
"I'll meet you downstairs."
A few minutes later Mulder was ready and waiting when Methos, MacLeod
and Joe joined him. In his arms, Methos held a long, narrow package,
while Duncan held Mulder's overcoat -- which he distinctly recalled
not having seen since Methos unaccountably sent it to the cleaners.
Methos cleared his throat gently. "I'd meant to do this later, but now
is as good a time as any. I've never been much for tradition anyway.
Here."
He thrust the package at Mulder, who took it, opening the cloth
wrapping carefully.
"Wow!" Mulder whispered when he saw the sword Methos had given him.
"A Spada da fante?" MacLeod asked, staring in amazement.
Methos nodded. "I had it specially commissioned when I lived in
Venice. It's wickedly dangerous and the longer blade makes it hard to
handle, but I think he's capable."
"He'd better be," MacLeod stated emphatically. "Watch your swing with
that thing, Mulder. You've got to come in at just the right angle or
you're likely to lose your edge and sprain something."
Mulder nodded, hefting the blade and sighting along the edge as he
tested the balance and weight. "I see what you mean," he agreed. "I'll
be careful with it." He gave Methos a small nod, fully intending to
give him more profuse thanks later when they were alone. "Now, if you
gentlemen will excuse me, I've really got to go."
Methos sighed and handed over the keys. "Remember, if you get into
trouble..."
"Holy ground, I know," Mulder finished, opening the driver side door.
"Wait," MacLeod said, tossing the coat at him. "You'll need this."
Mulder caught it easily. "I wondered why you had that out. It's a bit
warm for a trench coat, don't you think?"
Methos rolled his eyes. "I took the liberty of fitting it with a
sheath. Don't leave home without it."
Mulder threw it onto the passenger seat where he'd laid the sword.
"You know, I'm not intending to go into battle here."
"As if that makes a difference," Methos chided.
"I'll be in the company of Washington's finest, not to mention Agent
Scully."
"Well, yeah," MacLeod pointed out. "That would make a difference."
Methos shot him a nasty stare. "Well it does!" he insisted.
Mulder grinned, turned on the engine and pulled away before he was
drawn into the argument. For a long moment Methos simply stared after
him.
"Who would have thought you could be such a mother hen," MacLeod
chuckled, laying a hand on Methos' shoulder.
The older man shrugged it away. He had a very bad feeling about this.
"Come on, let's go have dessert. I have a marvelous German beer that
will go very nicely with some German chocolate cake."
They headed back into the building, MacLeod helping Joe up to the
second floor.
"So where's the-- Methos?" MacLeod looked back down the stairs.
Joe followed suit, shrugging when he didn't see the man. "Maybe he
went to get the beer."
"I think--" MacLeod paused as he heard a car engine revving.
Frantically, he searched for his keys, Joe doing likewise as he
suddenly realized what Methos was doing.
"They're--"
"Gone." Joe finished, frowning. "That sly little bastard. He picked my
pocket."
"Our pockets," MacLeod fumed, moving back down the stairs.
"Hey wait up!" Joe called as he fell in behind the angry Scot. "Give
me a minute and I'll hot wire the Chevy." MacLeod stared in surprise.
"You guys aren't the only ones who had a disaffected youth!"
***
The scene at the abandoned factory was lit only by the headlights of a
dozen police units and a van from the coroner's office. Broken glass
littered the ground and the scent of ozone hung heavy in the air as if
a storm had just past. Mulder flashed his badge at couple of uniforms
and was pointed in the direction of the body where Scully stood
waiting. She gave him the once over with her eyes, but said nothing.
"So, what have we got here?" Mulder asked.
"You should know, Mulder," she said, lifting the sheet and giving him
a good look at the upper torso. "You're the one who instructed the
local PD to call the bureau if there were a series of unexplained,
random beheadings. We've got at least three in as many days."
"At least?" he asked, kneeling down to examine the neck. Yup, the head
was definitely missing.
"They just called a new one in. Headless corpse seen floating in the
river about five miles from here."
"Any ID on the victims?" he lowered the sheet to see the rest of the
body, noting the lack of defensive wounds, or even slashes in the
clothing.
Scully pulled a note pad from her pocket. "The first was John Cray,
age forty-two, employee identification says he's a banker, no family,
or at least none we could verify. His maid says he never mentioned
any. He was killed at home. Second one is a Marianna Van Lundt, age
twenty-seven, a psychiatric student at Georgetown University. Her body
was found in the university parking lot about four a.m. this morning.
No one's been able to locate her family yet. This," she gestured to
the body as Mulder replaced the sheet and stood. "Is Ahmad Naftari,
thirty-five years of age. He's a haute couture shoe salesman from
Paris. And this," Scully ushered him over to a utility pole about
fifty feet away where the police were lowering a charred body rigged
in a climbing harness. "This is Henry Wallinski, age forty, a lineman
with the phone company. He was out here working when he was apparently
electrocuted. That's how the bodies were discovered so quickly.
Someone spotted him from the highway and called it in."
Mulder grimaced and nodded. With the exception of the bystander it all
sounded pretty much as Methos had described. The question now was just
how much he could tell Scully. She'd never believe it, but that wasn't
new. He sighed and took the coward's way out.
"I need you to autopsy the bodies," he began, heading back to the car.
Scully trotted faithfully along behind him. "And what am I looking
for?"
Mulder shrugged. "Drugs, ligature marks. If they weren't lured to
their deaths, they were certainly pretty complacent about being
decapitated."
Scully nodded. "And what are you going to do?"
"Check out the body at the river, then swing back to the other crime
scenes for a start." He climbed into the car.
"Mulder," Scully leaned down, resting her arms against the door. "I
know these killings seem odd, but what do they have to do with us?
They're not X files. If anything, they're gang or cult related, maybe
even vengeance killings over drugs."
"You're probably right," Mulder agreed. "But I'll just see what I can
find out. You okay with that?"
Scully smiled brightly. "Actually, it's rather nice to be working on a
case that doesn't involve the paranormal. Just," she added hastily,
"for the sake of variety."
"It is the spice of life," Mulder nodded, thinking this was just a
little too easy. "See you later."
He pulled out missing the expression of wary suspicion that crossed
her features. Mulder was never this easy unless he was hiding
something. A moment later Scully turned and went to her own vehicle.
It would be at least an hour before the most recent body could be
brought to the morgue at Quantico. In the meantime, she'd follow him,
just to be certain he did in fact go to the crime scene. Neither ever
noticed the black Mercedes traveling between them.
*
"I cannot believe I'm riding around looking for a headache!" Mulder
muttered. He had a vague uneasy feeling about who the rampaging
immortal might be, but he didn't want to rule out anything. At first
he'd thought MacLeod might have gotten into something while out buying
just the right wine to serve with beer braised rabbit. But according
to Joe the man was a marvel of self control, unless he happened to
think the wheels of justice would turn far too slowly and be better
served by slicing off the miscreant's head. Mulder didn't like it, but
he could understand the point of view that would lead an immortal to
think only they could police their own. It wasn't so much justice, he
thought, but simple expedience. He certainly was not looking forward
to running into those immortals he'd jailed when they finally got out
of prison. Still, he mused, glancing at the seat next to him, at least
now he could defend himself in the time honored tradition.
Another thing about these killings bothered him. Methos had indicated
that few immortals would dare to fight a duel to the death in DC.
Hell, even the local gang bangers had self-preservation enough to
avoid shooting outside their own community. The president's
neighborhood might be dicey, but his security was excellent. Any
murder within a five mile radius of the White House fell under intense
scrutiny. And, while he might be an officer of the law, he knew damn
well if he didn't protect immortal secrecy he'd probably be the one to
end up under the microscope in some hidden laboratory. That left only
one assumption and he was loath to make it. Someone wasn't thinking.
Someone who might be under a great deal of stress and taking out their
anger in killing.
Cassandra, he thought sadly. He hadn't meant to push her over the
edge. But if it were her then it was his responsibility to get her
some place safe where he could see she got proper therapy. Even if he
had to put her in jail to get it. Had it only been other immortals he
might have considered shipping her off to a secure facility in Europe
and getting Methos to foot the bill, but the telephone company
worker's death made things complicated. Not overly complicated, but
complicated nonetheless. She knew better than to challenge someone
with a witness present. What had the woman been thinking?
He turned onto a side street, still headed in the general direction of
the Potomac. Washington was not a very big city, but at night
everything seemed more distant. The buzz hit him just about the time
he smelled the river. She must be tired, he thought, on foot and
walking. Though he himself had never experienced one, two Quickenings
in fast succession must be exhausting.
Mulder pulled over, noting the area. Mostly boarded up dilapidated
buildings, out of business stores shut up behind steel, graffiti
covered gates, and a few empty lots where apartment blocks had once
existed. He reached for his sword then drew back his hand. No, he did
not want to appear threatening. He had another weapon at his disposal
and if he could just get her down and the cuffs on he could get her
someplace safe. If he couldn't... Well, he was probably dead anyway.
He was definitely not strong enough, or skilled enough to take on a
three thousand year old witch. Maybe like MacLeod she would listen to
reason.
He got out of the car, moving cautiously forward as he eased his
weapon out, keeping it at his side. "Cassandra!" he called. "It's Fox
Mulder. We need to talk." He caught a glimpse of something moving at
the far edge of a vacant lot and he made his way toward it. "I know
you're hurting, Cassandra. I only want to help you."
"Then die!"
He dropped and whirled, firing once as the blade missed his head by
inches. A woman shrieked and he heard trash cans tumbling as he lost
his footing.
"You don't have to do this, Cassandra," he called out calmly, getting
to his feet.
"You're wrong! I have to be strong. Strong enough to take him!"
"Is that why you're doing this?" Mulder asked, moving deeper into the
shadows as he followed the echo of her voice. "Is that why you were
willing to kill innocent men and women?"
"They were my students! They gave of themselves willingly!"
"Is that how you justify it?"
"I don't need to justify anything! Not to one who would choose Death
over me!"
Mulder paused. "Or is it that Death chose life instead of you?" There
was a long silence and he slowly moved forward. "That's it, isn't it,
Cassandra? You bought into the myth. You'd almost have to back then,
when raiding for women was synonymous with getting married. If you
didn't you'd probably go insane." He felt his way up the alley, trying
to keep her thinking rather than reacting. "It's not all that
different now, Cassandra. My secretary likes to read those novels. You
know, handsome warrior prince carries off beautiful peasant girl who's
really a princess in disguise. He ravishes the fair maid and in
showing her her heart's desire falls madly in love, keeping her safe
and protecting her honor from various and sundry bad guys. But your
prince wouldn't fight for you, would he? Wouldn't die for you. He
wouldn't even come after you when you ran away, so you could go off
together and hide. You thought you meant something to him. That's why
you hate him, isn't it?" He turned another corner, nervously searching
the darkness.
"I never loved him!" she shrieked.
"No? Then why try to kill him? He never once offered you death,
Cassandra. Not even in taking your first life. So how do you justify
killing him? Tell me I'm wrong, Cassandra. Tell me you didn't get over
the past and move on with your life when you believed Methos was dead.
It's been three thousand years. It must have occurred to you somewhere
along the line that what happens to the body is ultimately
meaningless. We are our minds, Cassandra, not just our flesh."
He turned another corner, which opened onto the interior of a half
demolished building. Only the front facade remained and it was there
he saw her standing calmly in the rising moonlight.
"I want to help you, Cassandra. Will you let me?"
"Yes, you can help me," she nodded, pointing her sword which crackled
and danced with the energy of her Quickening at him. "You can die."
Mulder raised his gun as she rushed forward and the charge along the
blade skipped and arced. It hit him square in the chest, taking his
breath and knocking him to the ground. To his right he heard the sharp
report of his gun accidentally fire as it hit the concrete foundation,
skittering along the floor. Then Cassandra stood over him, sword
poised, and he knew in that instant that he was going to die. Every
nerve in his body felt seared by lightening and he realized why her
students hadn't been able to fight. He shut his eyes as she started
her swing, suddenly startled by the metallic clang of blade against
blade.
"Not this time, Cassandra!" Methos hissed. "This time we settle the
score."
In a blinding succession of thrusts and parries Methos drove her back,
giving her no chance to marshal her arcane strength, until with a
single lunge he plunged his sword into her chest. "I wanted to help
you," he told her, watching the light die in her eyes. "Mulder wanted
to help. And Marianna, the only student of mine you hadn't destroyed
wanted to help. But you don't want help, Cassandra. You want revenge.
And for that I'm sorry. I won't have you stalking my children for all
time." With that he pulled the blade from her heart and with a cry of
anguish sliced his sword through the air separating her head from her
neck.
There was a scream as the body slumped to the ground and Mulder
shuddered at the sight of Scully standing on a rise of bricks nearby.
As the wind came up a mist began to rise from the stump of Cassandra's
neck. It lifted higher and a flicker of light began to glimmer inside.
The glow expanded in the mist, enveloping Methos and the snapping
crackle of an electrical charge shot out and upward arcing into the
sky. Light seared Mulder's eyes again and he watched in fascination
and horror as bolt after bolt of energy tore into Methos, who fell to
his knees screaming in agony. And it was like a living thing the
lightening. Aiming itself at Methos, at his sword and at the place
where he knelt, until bricks imploded and the wall behind him crumbled
and collapsed into the ground. A moment later it was gone. A few
trailing wisps of static moving along his sword until it stopped
entirely and the only thing Mulder could hear were harsh exhausted
pants interspersed with tearful sobs coming from that dark distant
corner.
"You bastard!"
Mulder saw MacLeod coming from behind as the other man raised his
sword. He reached out, catching an ankle and pulling the man to the
ground. Quickly, he scrambled over, shouting, "He tried!" while
punching MacLeod's wrist until the sword fell from his grasp. "He
tried! We tried! She wouldn't listen! She killed them all! Every
student she had! Every student he had! She wanted enough power to take
him. To take his Quickening and survive!" Finally, MacLeod ceased his
struggles. "She wanted vengeance, not life," Mulder explained. "Not
one that would have meant anything anyway after he was gone. She loved
him, MacLeod. And she hated him for it. After all those centuries it
came down to just one thing. The anger of a woman scorned."
He saw the light of understanding come into MacLeod's eyes.
Comprehension of the depth of Cassandra's rage. He'd seen such things
before. Perhaps even been the victim. Whatever the case, he nodded,
grimacing as he realized what both he and Methos had known from the
start. Cassandra would never have stopped until either or both were
dead.
"I don't know what's going on here, but you're under arrest for
murder."
Mulder turned his head to find Scully standing over Methos with her
gun drawn and her cuffs out.
"Drop the sword and put your hands on your head slowly," she ordered.
"Scully, no." Mulder rose and staggered over. "She would have killed
me, like she killed the others. The others like me, Scully."
She stared at him, perplexed and disbelieving as always. "What are you
saying?"
"I'm saying that it was self defense. That it was the only way she
could be stopped."
"He's right," MacLeod added, wiping tears from his eyes. "Your justice
would have meant nothing. I knew Cassandra. She would have used her
powers to walk out of wherever you took her, or pretended to die. And
then she would have been back, killing more innocent immortals. You
can't gain power by simply taking heads. Not if you can't control your
own. And Cassandra couldn't."
"Mulder, what the hell is he talking about?"
"Remember The Game, Scully?" She nodded shortly. "That's what this is
about. It was always about power. A power I didn't know I had until I
met Adam."
"Look," Methos interrupted. "Why don't we all go back to my place. You
can explain everything there. Then, if she still wants to arrest me,
I'll go along. Peacefully," he added. "I've done prison. And I've done
being executed. As long as no one whips out a guillotine I have no
qualms about doing it again. Satisfied?"
Scully looked to Mulder, clearly unsure as to what to think of
anything. "I'll vouch for him, Scully. All I want you to do is hear me
out. Trust me."
After a long pause Scully finally nodded. "All right, but I want those
weapons secured. And him," she twitched her gun at Methos, "cuffed
until I decide whether or not you've completely gone insane."
Mulder looked at Methos, who shrugged and put his hands on his head.
"Just give me a chance," he told her, doing the honors on Methos
himself. "That's all I ask."
Scully nodded. "And that's all you're going to get."
***
"But Mulder, that makes no sense!" Scully reiterated. "There is no
scientific basis for that conclusion. It's totally illogical!"
"Yes, Mr. Spock, but it's true."
"Butt out, Adam!" Mulder ordered.
"Just trying to help," Methos muttered, a bit miffed.
"Thanks, but..." Mulder rubbed his eyes. They'd been at it nearly an
hour and still Scully refused to even admit that the possibility of
immortality could exist. This was getting them nowhere.
"Listen folks," Joe interjected, having remained silent during most of
the argument. "I'm used to dealing with this kind of thing. Mind if
Agent Scully and I talk privately for a bit?"
He glanced at Scully, who nodded and they moved away to talk quietly
in the little kitchen. "How are you doing?" Mulder asked Methos,
checking to see that the cuffs were allowing for proper circulation.
"Better now that we're on holy ground. It was a difficult Quickening.
I wasn't sure about everything you said out there, but with Cassandra
here I can feel the truth of it. I'd no idea," he whispered sadly.
"She thought of us as married. She didn't really want to kill me. She
only wanted to hurt me, as I'd hurt her."
"You had no choice," Mulder reminded him unnecessarily.
Methos nodded tiredly. "You're the last of my students," he admitted
bitterly. "Marianna... Sweet, gentle Marianna. I found her wandering
the coast of Flanders. Such a tiny little thing. She'd been beaten to
death and dumped in the sea by the people of her village after she
changed. She'd called to let me know Cassandra had come to see her
asking for therapy."
"She knew?"
"Not the gory details," Methos allowed. "Just enough to know I'd
wronged the woman and mistreated her badly. I guess Cassandra realized
she knew too much to merely be a sympathetic listener. Marianna was
always very trusting."
"Look, about Scully," Mulder began.
Methos shook his head. "She won't listen. No matter what you do or
say. I know the type. The minute she's alone she'll compartmentalize
everything she's seen and find a logical reason for why she didn't see
what she thought she saw. But I might be able to help you there."
Mulder nodded for him to go on.
"Cassandra's powers. I have them inside me. I can, if you're willing,
obscure the memories. I can make her forget what she's seen. Make her
forget even," he sighed, "that you're immortal." Mulder's eyes
widened. "You could go back to work and she'd never suspect anything.
Put a little gray in your hair and retire naturally in five, maybe ten
years. Move someplace quiet and sunny. Give her a call now and again
and invite to a retiree party."
Mulder looked away. God, how many times had he wished for exactly that
in the past few weeks? And tonight, when she'd been pleased by working
on what she thought was a case without paranormal leanings he'd seen
at last that she wasn't really happy. True, they'd worked a lot of
mainstream cases in recent years. But only as consultants. And mostly
in his capacity as a profiler. More often than not when they weren't
in the field working, she'd been lecturing over at Quantico. He'd even
heard she'd been offered a tenured professorship at one of the Ivy
League universities.
"It isn't fair, is it?" he asked quietly. "Her watching me go on and
knowing."
Methos shook his head. "It's why we so rarely marry. I've had sixty-
nine wives in five thousand years. And each time I wished I could take
it back. Take back even the good years if I could just let them die in
peace. Let them have at least the dream that one day I might join
them, even in death."
For a long while Mulder stood thinking, then he nodded to himself and
quietly unlocked the cuffs on Methos. "Take it all," he murmured and
turned away. "Everything."
He refused to look as he heard Scully's tiny shriek as Methos came up
behind her. Or see the look on her face as he took her memories. He
hated himself for a coward, but he knew it was a kindness Methos was
doing. She would grow old and they would drift apart during his forced
retirement. And, one day, he would stand at her grave and remember for
her, he silently promised. One day he would remember everything.
A long time later a hand clasped his shoulder. "Take her home,
Mulder," Methos murmured gently. "Let her sleep. When she wakes in the
morning she won't recall any of it. She'll transfer the case to
Violent Crimes and remember only that she thought of calling you and
decided against it. She didn't want to spoil your vacation."
He nodded and went to get Scully, leading her carefully down the
stairs and to her car. She was quiet, as if she were sleep walking.
When they reached her apartment he brought her inside and waited
silently while she readied herself for bed then tucked her in.
"Good night, Scully," he whispered as he shut the door behind him.
"May you always have peaceful dreams."
***
Malibu, California
November, 2025
The door bell rang and Methos nearly tripped over the carpet in his
eagerness to answer it.
"Good God!" Methos uttered as he took one look at Mulder, then hugged
the man, pulling him inside the entry way. "That's amazing," he
grinned, grabbing his jaw and turning his head from side to side.
Mulder had 'aged' gracefully. After a few years of adding a touch of
gray around the temples he'd finally begun frosting entire sections of
his hair until it was completely white. A little spirit gum and faux
molded skin around the eyes and mouth created the illusion of fine
wrinkles.
"Amazing, yeah, but it itches like crazy. After five years I think
it's given me a permanent squint."
Methos grinned. "Well, go take it off. Dinner will keep." He pointed
the way to the bathroom and Mulder saluted.
"How's MacLeod?" he asked as Methos came to watch the youthful face
re-emerge as if from chrysalis.
"Getting by. You know, Joe passed last year."
Mulder nodded sadly. "He wrote to tell me. Said he didn't think his
new Watcher was going to be half as much fun to hang with."
Methos snorted. "So he claims. First time he approached the kid the
boy nearly wet himself. Thought MacLeod was going to kill him. But he
seems to be doing better."
"Good. So when do I get mine?" Mulder asked casually. Once upon a time
Joe had agreed that putting a Watcher on a Federal agent would be
redundant. Especially when the most significant portions of his day
were readily available on the public record. The rest... Well, Mulder
had insisted that as long as he was with the bureau he wouldn't be
taking any heads. Shoot first, imprison later seemed to be the only
route he could safely take without drawing attention, even if it was
only that of The Watchers.
"You don't. At least not if I can help it."
Mulder glanced at him questioningly, the last of the fake skin coming
loose as he dabbed it with alcohol.
"I deleted your name from the Watcher database back when Joe first
retired. They should never," he grinned slyly, "have let me help
develop the software in the first place. So, how's Agent Scully?"
"That's Special Agent In Charge Scully. As soon as I announced my
retirement they promoted her. I guess they were waiting for me to bow
out gracefully. There are already rumblings of an Assistant
Directorship next year."
"Good for her," Methos declared. "She's what now? Almost sixty?"
Mulder nodded. "Yeah, and taking full advantage of the new federal
retirement guidelines. Wish I could have," he added wistfully. With
more than half the nation made up of so-called senior citizens, and
most of them still working, new laws against age discrimination were
being passed almost daily. One could work until one decided to retire,
or was found incompetent to perform the skill set the job required.
Unlike the generations before them the baby boomers had refused to go
home, sit down and let the young folks come out to play.
"You had a good run," Methos told him honestly. "If you'd stayed any
longer..."
"I know," Mulder agreed, washing his face with soap and water until it
was completely clean. He grabbed the towel Methos handed him. "The
thing is there was so much more to do and see."
"It doesn't have to end here," Methos told him once he'd dried his
face. "You can still explore the paranormal, if that's what takes your
fancy," he added, leading the way to the terrace overlooking the
Pacific. A brilliant, orange-pink sunset suffused the clouds as the
sea lapped delicately against the beach.
"I intend to," Mulder admitted, taking a seat at the little dining
table Methos had set. "I've already laid the foundations for a dozen
new identities." At Methos' questioning glance he grimaced wryly. "I'm
not ever going to have the kind of access being employed by the FBI
affords again. I thought I'd lay a little ground work to take me
through the next couple of centuries."
"Wise move," Methos complimented, grabbing a couple of beers from a
cooler he'd placed nearby. He handed one to Mulder and slid into
another chair.
"The thing is, I don't really know what I want to do now that I'm
'retired'."
"You could write your memoirs," Methos suggested. "Or take up shuffle
boarding."
Mulder smiled blandly. "Sounds thrilling, but I was looking for
something a little more relaxing."
Methos grinned and reached across to uncover a warming dish. "You
never did get to taste my beer braised goat with sausage stuffing. Dig
in."
Helping himself to a plateful, Mulder paused as something occurred to
him. "You know, I never did get to ask you. After fifty centuries you
must have seen a hell of a lot of unexplained phenomena."
"Certainly," Methos admitted.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"What you've seen!" Mulder practically shouted.
"Oh, that," Methos shrugged. "Really, Mulder, don't you know, some
things have to be seen to be believed?"
Mulder laid his head in his hands and sighed. "You're not going to
tell me, are you?"
"Actually," Methos said gently. "I thought I'd do you one better."
Mulder looked up, staring at what Methos held in his hands. A pair of
airline tickets.
"I thought I'd show you instead."
Mulder snatched at the tickets, but Methos pulled them away. "Oh, come
on! Where are we going?"
"To a galaxy far, far away..."
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ecolea@wt.net